THREE     PLAYS 


THREE    PLAYS 

By  W.  E.   HENLEY  and 
R.    L.    STEVENSON 


DEACON    BRODIE 

BEAU    AUSTIN 
ADMIRAL    GUINEA 


I 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1S92 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
W.  E.  Henley  and  R.  L.  Stevenson 


\AU  rights  reserved'] 


TROW   DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


r 


{ v 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DEACON    BRODIE  i 

BEAU    AUSTIN in 

ADMIRAL    GUINEA      .         .         .         .177 


DEACON     BRODIE 
OR    THE    DOUBLE    LIFE 

A    MELODRAMA 

IN    FIVE    ACTS    AND 

EIGHT   TABLEAUX 


PERSONS   REPRESENTED 

William  Brodie,  Deacon  of  the  Wrights,  Housebreaker  and  Master 

Carpenter. 
Old  Brodie,  the  Deacon's  Father, 

William  Lawson,  Procurator-Fiscal,  the  Deacon's  Uncle. 
Andrew  Ainslie,      \ 

Humphrey  Moore,  >  Robbers  in  the  Deacon's  gang. 
George  Smith,         ) 

Captain  Rivers,  an  English  Highwayman. 
Hunt,  a  Bow  Street  Runner. 
A  Doctor. 
Walter  Leslie. 

Mary  Brodie,  the  Deacon's  Sister. 
Jean  Watt,  the  Deacon's  Mistress. 

Vagabonds,  Officers  of  the  Watch,  Men-servants. 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  Edinburgh.     The  Time  is  towards  the  close  of 

the  Eighteenth  Century.     The  action,  some  fifty  hours 

long,  begins  at  eight  p.m.  on  Saturday  and 

ends  before  midnight  on  Monday 


Note. — Passages  suggested  for  omission  in  representation  are 
enclosed  in  square  brackets,  thus  [    ]. 


SYNOPSIS   OF  ACTS  AND   TABLEAUX 
ACT  I. 

tableau  I The  Double  Life. 

tableau  ii Hunt  the  Runner. 

tableau  in Mother  Clarke's. 

ACT   IT. 
tableau  iv Evil  and  Good. 

ACT   III. 

tableau  v King's  Evidence. 

tableau  vi.  ...'....        Unmasked. 

ACT   IV. 
tableau  vii. The  Robbery. 

ACT  V. 
tableau  viii The  Open  Door. 


LONDON:    PRINCE'S   THEATRE 
zd  July  18S4 


Deacon  Brodie, 
Walter  Leslie, 
William  Lawsox, 
Andrew  Ainslie, 
Humphrey  Moore 
George  Smith, 
Hunt, 

Old  Brodie,   . 
Captain  Rivers, 
Mary  Brodie, 
Jean  Watt,     . 


Mr.  E.  J.  Henley. 

Mr.  Charles  Cartwright. 

Mr.  John  Maclean. 

Mr.  Fred.  Desmond. 

Mr.  Edmund  Grace. 

Mr.  Julian  Cross. 

Mr.  Hubert  Akhurst 

Mr.  A.  Knight. 

Mr.  Brandon  Thomas. 

Miss  Lizzie  Williams. 

Miss  Minnie  Bell. 


MONTREAL 


Deacon  Brodie, 
Walter  Leslie, 
William  Lawson, 
Andrew  Ainslie, 
Humphrey  Moore, 
George  Smith, 
Hunt, 

Captain  Rivers, 
Mary  Brodie, 
Jean  Watt,     . 


26/// 


September  1887 


Mr.  E.  J.  Henley. 
Mr.  Graham  Stewart. 
Mr.  Edmund  Lyons. 
Mr.  Fred.  Desmond. 
Mr.  Edmund  Grace. 
Mr.  Horatio  Saker. 
Mr.  Henry  Vernon. 
Mr.  Bruce  Philips. 
Miss  Annie  Robe. 
Miss  Carrie  Coote. 


ACT   I 

TABLEAU   I 
The  Double   Life 

The  Stage  represents  a  room  in  the  Deacotfs  house,  furnished partly 

as  a  sitting-,  partly  as  a  bed-room,  in  the  style  of  an  easy  burgess  of 

about  17S0.     C,  a  door ;  L.  C,  a  second  and  smaller  door ;  R.   C, 

practicable  window;  L.,  alcove,  supposed  to  contain  bed;    at  the 

back,  a  clothes-press  and  a  corner  cupboard  con  taining  bottles,  etc. 

Mary  Brodie  at  needlework  ;  Old  Brodie,  a  paralytic, 

in  wheeled  chair,  at  the  fireside,  L. 

SCENE    I 
To  these  Leslie,  C. 

Leslie.  May  I  come  in,  Mary  ?  I 

Mary.  Why  not  ?  j 

Leslie.  I  scarce  knew  where  to  find  you.  cr    T 

Mary.  The  dad  and  I  must  have  a  corner,  must 

we  not  ?     So  when  my  brother's  friends  are  in  the 

parlour  he  allows  us  to  sit  in  his  room.     'Tis  a  great 

favour,  I  can  tell  you  ;  the  place  is  sacred. 

Leslie.  Are    you   sure   that    '  sacred '   is   strong 

enough  ? 

Mary.  You  are  satirical ! 

I 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Leslie.  I  ?  And  with  regard  to  the  Deacon  ? 
j  Believe    me,   I    am    not   so    ill-advised.     You    have 

Cr  T  trained  me  well,  and  I  feel  by  him  as  solemnly  as 
a  true-born  Brodie. 

MARY.  And  now  you  are  impertinent !  Do  you 
mean  to  go  any  filrther  ?  We  are  a  righting  race,  we 
Brodies.  Oh,  you  may  laugh,  sir  !  But  'tis  no  child's 
play  to  jest  us  on  our  Deacon,  or,  for  that  matter,  on 
our  Deacon's  chamber  either.  It  was  his  father's 
before  him  ;  he  works  in  it  by  day  and  sleeps  in  it  by 
night ;  and  scarce  anything  it  contains  but  is  the 
labour  of  his  hands.  Do  you  see  this  table,  Walter  ? 
He  made  it  while  he  was  yet  a  'prentice.  I  remember 
how  I  used  to  sit  and  watch  him  at  his  work.  It 
would  be  grand,  I  thought,  to  be  able  to  do  as  he  did, 
and  handle  edge-tools  without  cutting  my  fingers,  and 
getting  my  ears  pulled  for  a  meddlesome  minx  !  He 
used  to  give  me  his  mallet  to  keep  and  his  nails  to 
hold  ;  and  didn't  I  fly  when  he  called  for  them  !  and 
wasn't  I  proud  to  be  ordered  about  with  them  !  And 
then,  you  know,  there  is  the  tall  cabinet  yonder  ;  that 
it  was  that  proved  him  the  first  of  Edinburgh  joiners, 
and  worthy  to  be  their  Deacon  and  their  head.  And 
the  father's  chair,  and  the  sister's  workbox,  and  the 
dear  dead  mother's  footstool — what  are  they  all  but 
proofs  of  the  Deacon's  skill,  and  tokens  of  the 
Deacon's  care  for  those  about  him  ? 

Leslie.  I  am  all  penitence.  Forgive  me  this  last 
time,  and  I  promise  you  I  never  will  again. 

2 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Mary.  Candidly,  now,  do  you  think  you  deserve 
forgiveness  ?  j 

Leslie.  Candidly,  I  do  not.  o 

MARY.  Then  I  suppose  you  must  have  it.  What 
have  you  done  with  Willie  and  my  uncle  ? 

Leslie.  I  left  them  talking  deeply.  The  dear  old 
Procurator  has  not  much  thought  just  now  for  any- 
thing but  those  mysterious  burglaries 

Mary.   I  know  ! 

Leslie.  Still,  all  of  him  that  is  not  magistrate  and 
official  is  politician  and  citizen  ;  and  he  has  been 
striving  his  hardest  to  undermine  the  Deacon's  prin- 
ciples, and  win  the  Deacon's  vote  and  interest. 

Mary.  They  are  worth  having,  are  they  not  ? 

Leslie.  The  Procurator  seems  to  think  that  hav- 
ing them  makes  the  difference  between  winning  and 
losing. 

Mary.  Did  he  say  so  ?  You  may  rely  upon  it  that 
he  knows.  There  are  not  many  in  Edinburgh  who 
can  match  with  our  Will. 

Leslie.  There  shall  be  as  many  as  you  please,  and 
not  one  more. 

Mary.  How  I  should  like  to  have  heard  you  ! 
What  did  uncle  say?  Did  he  speak  of  the  Town 
Council  again  ?  Did  he  tell  Will  what  a  wonderful 
Bailie  he  would  make  ?     O  why  did  you  come  away  ? 

Leslie.  I  could  not  pretend  to  listen  any  longer. 
The  election  is  months  off  yet ;  and  if  it  were  not — if 
it  were  tramping  upstairs  this  moment — drums,  flags, 

3 


Sc.  i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

cockades,  guineas,  candidates,  and  all! — how  should 
j  I  care  for  it  ?     What  are  Whig  and  Tory  to  me  ? 

Mary.  O  fie  on  you!  It  is  for  every  man  to  concern 
himself  in  the  common  weal.  Mr.  Leslie — Leslie  of 
the  Craig! — should  know  that  much  at  least. 

LESLIE.  And  be  a  politician  like  the  Deacon  ?  All 
in  good  time,  but  not  now.  I  hearkened  while  I 
could,  and  when  I  could  no  more  I  slipped  out  and 
followed  my  heart.     I  hoped  I  should  be  welcome. 

Mary.  I  suppose  you  mean  to  be  unkind. 

Leslie.  Tit  for  tat.  Did  you  not  ask  me  why  I 
came  away  ?  And  is  it  usual  for  a  young  lady  to  say 
'  Mr.'  to  the  man  she  means  to  marry  ? 

Mary.  That  is  for  the  young  lady  to  decide,  sir. 

Leslie.  And  against  that  judgment  there  shall  be 
no  appeal  ? 

Mary.   O,  if  you  mean  to  argue  ! 

Leslie.  I  do  not  mean  to  argue.  I  am  content  to 
love  and  be  loved.  I  think  I  am  the  happiest  man  in 
the  world. 

Mary.  That  is  as  it  should  be  ;  for  I  am  the 
happiest  girl. 

Leslie.  Why  not  say  the  happiest  wife  ?  I  have 
your  word,  and  you  have  mine.     Is  not  that  enough  ? 

Mary.  Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  ?  Did  I  not 
tell  you  how  it  must  be  as  my  brother  wills  ?  I  can 
do  only  as  he  bids  me. 

Leslie.  Then  you  have  not  spoken  as  you  prom- 
ised ? 

4 


Sc.  i 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Mary.  I  have  been  too  happy  to  speak.  I 

LESLIE.   I  am  his  friend.     Precious  as  you  are,  he  j 

will  trust  you  to  me.  He  has  but  to  know  how  I  love 
you,  Mary,  and  how  your  life  is  all  in  your  love  of 
me,  to  give  us  his  blessing  with  a  full  heart. 

Mary.  I  am  sure  of  him.  It  is  that  which 
makes  my  happiness  complete.  Even  to  our  mar- 
riage I  should  find  it  hard  to  say  '  Yes  '  when  he 
said  '  No.' 

Leslie.  Your  father  is  trying  to  speak.  I'll  wager 
he  echoes  you. 

Mary  {to  Old  Brodie).  My  poor  dearie  !  Do 
you  want  to  say  anything  to  me  ?  No  ?  Is  it  to  Mr. 
Leslie,  then  ? 

Leslie.   I  am  listening,  Mr.  Brodie. 

Mary.   What  is  it,  daddie? 

Old  Brodie.  My  son  —  the  Deacon — Deacon 
Brodie — the  first  at  school. 

Leslie.  I  know  it,  Mr.  Brodie.  Was  I  not  the  last 
in  the  same  class  ?  {To  Mary.)  But  he  seems  to 
have  forgotten  us. 

Mary.  O  yes  !  his  mind  is  wellnigh  gone.  He 
will  sit  for  hours  as  you  see  him,  and  never  speak  nor 
stir  but  at  the  touch  of  Will's  hand  or  the  sound  of 
Will's  name. 

Leslie.  It  is  so  good  to  sit  beside  you.  By  and  by 
it  will  be  always  like  this.  You  will  not  let  me  speak 
to  the  Deacon  ?  You  are  fast  set  upon  speaking 
yourself?     I  could  be   so   eloquent,  Mary — I  would 

5 


Sc.  i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

touch  him.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  fear  to  trust  my 
I  happiness  to  any  one  else — even  to  you  ! 

Mary.  He  must  hear  of  my  good  fortune  from 
none  but  me.  And  besides,  you  do  not  understand. 
We  are  not  like  families,  we  Brodies.  We  are  so 
clannish,  we  hold  so  close  together. 

Leslie.    You  Brodies,  and  your  Deacon  ! 

Old  Brodie.  Deacon  of  his  craft,  sir — Deacon  of 
the  Wrights — my  son  !  If  his  mother — his  mother — 
had  but  lived  to  see  ! 

Mary.  You  hear  how  he  runs  on.  A  word  about 
my  brother  and  he  catches  it.  'Tis  as  if  he  were 
awake  in  his  poor  blind  way  to  all  the  Deacon's  care 
for  him  and  all  the  Deacon's  kindness  to  me.  I 
believe  he  only  lives  in  the  thought  of  the  Deacon. 
There,  it  is  not  so  long  since  I  was  one  with  him. 
But  indeed  I  think  we  are  all  Deacon-mad,  we 
Brodies.     Are  we  not,  daddie  dear  ? 

Brodie  [without,  and  entering).  You  are  a  mighty 
magistrate,  Procurator,  but  you  seem  to  have  met 
your  match. 

SCENE   II 

To  these,  Brodie  and  Lawson 

Sc.  2  Mary  (curtseying).  So,  uncle  !  you  have  honoured 

us  at  last. 

Lawson.   Quamprimum,  my  dear,  quamprimum. 
Brodie.  Well,  father,  do  you  know  me  ?  (He  sits 
beside  his  father  and  takes  his  hand.) 
6 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

[Old    Brodie.  William — ay — Deacon.      Greater  I 

man — than — his  father.  j 

Brodie.   You  see,  Procurator,  the  news  is  as  fresh      o      0 
to  him  as  it  was  five  years  ago.     He  was  struck  down 
before  he  got  the  Deaconship,  and  lives  his  lost  life 
in  mine. 

Lawson.  Ay,  I  mind.  He  was  aye  ettling  after  a 
bit  handle  to  his  name.  He  was  kind  of  hurt  when 
first  they  made  me  Procurator.] 

Mary.  And  what  have  you  been  talking  of? 

Lawson.  Just  o'  thae  robberies,  Mary.  Baith  as 
a  burgher  and  a  Crown  offeecial,  I  tak'  the  maist 
absorbing  interest  in  thae  robberies. 

Leslie.  Egad,  Procurator,  and  so  do  I. 

Brodie  {with  a  quick  look  at  Leslie).  A  dilet- 
tante interest,  doubtless  !  See  what  it  is  to  be 
idle. 

Leslie.  Faith,  Brodie,  I  hardly  know  how  to 
style  it. 

Brodie.  At  any  rate,  'tis  not  the  interest  of  a  vic- 
tim, or  we  should  certainly  have  known  of  it  before  ; 
nor  a  practical  tool-mongering  interest,  like  my  own  ; 
nor  an  interest  professional  and  official,  like  the  Proc- 
urator's.    You  can  answer  for  that,  I  suppose  ? 

Leslie.  I  think   I  can  ;  if  for  no  more.     It's  an 

interest  of  my  own,  you  see,  and  is  best  described  as 

indescribable,  and  of  no  manner  of  moment  to  any- 

1  body.    [It  will  take  no  hurt  if  we  put  off  its  discussion 

till  a  month  of  Sundays.] 

7 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Brodie.  You  are  more  fortunate  than  you  deserve. 
j  What  do  you  say,  Procurator  ? 

cr    0  LAWSON.  Ay  is  he  !     There's  no  a  house  in  Edin- 

burgh safe.  The  law  is  clean  helpless,  clean  helpless  ! 
A  week  syne  it  was  auld  Andra  Simpson's  in  the 
Lawnmarket.  Then,  naething  would  set  the  cata- 
marans but  to  forgather  privily  wi'  the  Provost's  ain 
butler,  and  tak'  unto  themselves  the  Provost's  ain 
plate.  And  the  day,  information  was  laid  before  me 
offeecially  that  the  limmers  had  made  infraction, 
vi  et  clam,  into  Leddy  Mar'get  Dalziel's,  and  left  her 
leddyship  wi'  no  sae  muckle's  a  spune  to  sup  her 
parritch  wi'.  It's  unbelievable,  it's  awful,  it's  anti- 
christian ! 

Mary.  If  you  only  knew  them,  uncle,  what  an 
example  you  would  make  !  But  tell  me,  is  it  not 
strange  that  men  should  dare  such  things,  in  the 
midst  of  a  city,  and  nothing,  nothing  be  known  of 
them —nothing  at  all  ? 

Leslie.  Little,  indeed!  But  we  do  know  that 
there  are  several  in  the  gang,  and  that  one  at  least 
is  an  unrivalled  workman. 

Lawson.  Ye're  right,  sir  ;  ye're  vera  right,  Mr. 
Leslie.  It  had  been  deponed  to  me  offeecially  that 
no  a  tradesman — no  the  Deacon  here  himsel' — could 
have  made  a  cleaner  job  wi'  Andra  Simpson's  shut- 
ters. And  as  for  the  lock  o'  the  bank — but  that's 
an  auld  sang. 

Brodie.  I  think  you  believe  too  much,  Procurator. 

8 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 
Rumour's  an  ignorant  jade,  I  tell  you.    I've  had  occa-  \ 


sion  to  see  some  little  of  their  handiwork — broken 
cabinets,  broken  shutters,  broken  doors — and  I  find 
them  bunglers.     Why,  I  could  do  it  better  myself ! 

Leslie.  Gad,  Brodie,  you  and  I  might  go  into 
partnership.  I  back  myself  to  watch  outside,  and  I 
suppose  you  could  do  the  work  of  skill  within  ? 

Brodie.  An  opposition  company  ?  Leslie,  your 
mind  is  full  of  good  things.  Suppose  we  begin  to- 
night, and  give  the  Procurator's  house  the  honours 
of  our  innocence  ? 

Mary.  You  could  do  anything,  you  two  ! 

Lawson.  Onyway,  Deacon,  ye'd  put  your  ill-gotten 
gains  to  a  right  use  ;  they  might  come  by  the  wind 
but  they  wouldna  gang  wi'  the  water ;  and  that's  aye 
a  solatium,  as  we  say.  If  I  am  to  be  robbit,  I  would 
like  to  be  robbit  wi'  decent  folk  ;  and  no  think  o'  my 
bonnie  clean  siller  dirling  among  jads  and  dicers. 
[Faith,  William,  the  mair  I  think  on  't,  the  mair  I'm 
o'  Mr.  Leslie's  mind.  Come  the  night,  or  come  the 
morn,  and  I'se  gie  ye  my  free  permission,  and  lend 
ye  a  hand  in  at  the  window  forbye  ! 

Brodie.  Come,  come,  Procurator,  lead  not  our 
poor  clay  into  temptation.  (Leslie  and  Mary  talk 
apart.) 

LAWSON.  I'm  no  muckle  afraid  for  your  puir  clay, 
as  ye  ca  't.]  But  hark  i'  your  ear  :  ye're  likely,  joking 
apart,  to  be  gey  and  sune  in  partnership  wi'  Mr.  Leslie. 
He  and  Mary  are  gey  and  pack,  a  body  can  see  that. 

9 


I 
Sc.  2 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  [Brodie.  '  Daffin'  and  want  o'  wit ' — you  know  the 


I 
Sc.  2 


rest. 

Lawson.  Vidi,  scivi,  et  atidivi,  as  we  say  in  a 
Sasine,  William.]  Man,  because  my  wig's  pouthered 
do  ye  think  I  havena  a  green  heart  ?  I  was  aince 
a  lad  mysel',  and  I  ken  fine  by  the  glint  o'  the  e'e 
when  a  lad's  fain  and  a  lassie's  willing.  And, 
man,  it's  the  town's  talk;  communis  error  fit  jus, 
ye  ken. 

[Old  Brodie.  Oh ! 

Lawson.  See,  ye're  hurting  your  faither's  hand. 

Brodie.  Dear  dad,  it  is  not  good  to  have  an  ill- 
tempered  son. 

Lawson.  What  the  deevil  ails  ye  at  the  match  ? 
'Od,  man,  he  has  a  nice  bit  divot  o'  Fife  corn-land,  I 
can  tell  ye,  and  some  Bordeaux  wine  in  his  cellar ! 
But  I  needna  speak  o'  the  Bordeaux  ;  ye'll  ken  the 
smack  o't  as  weel's  I  do  mysel'  ;  onyway  it's  grand 
wine.  Tantum  et  tale.  I  tell  ye  the  pro's,  find  you 
the  con.'s,  if  ye're  able.] 

BRODIE.  [I  am  sorry,  Procurator,  but  I  must  be 
short  with  you.]  You  are  talking  in  the  air,  as 
lawyers  will.  I  prefer  to  drop  the  subject  [and  it 
will  displease  me  if  you  return  to  it  in  my  hearing]. 

Leslie.  At  four  o'clock  to-morrow  ?  At  my  house? 
{to  Mary). 

Mary.  As  soon  as  church  is  done.     (Exit  Mary.) 

Lawson.  Ye  needna  be  sae  high  and  mighty,  ony- 
way. 

10 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Procurator.  But  we 
Brodies — you  know  our  failings  !    [A  bad  temper  and  j 

a  humour  of  privacy.]  cr    0 

Lawson.  Weel,  I  maun    be  about  my  business. 
But  I  could  tak'  a  doch-an-dorach,  William  ;  sufier- 
fina  non  nocent,  as  we  say  ;  an  extra  dram  hurts  nae- 
body,  Mr.  Leslie. 

Brodie  {with  bottle  and  glasses).  Here's  your  old 
friend,  Procurator.  Help  yourself,  Leslie.  Oh  no, 
thank  you,  not  any  for  me.  You  strong  people  have 
the  advantage  of  me  there.  With  my  attacks,  you 
know,  I  must  always  live  a  bit  of  a  hermit's  life. 

Lawson.  'Od,  man,  that's  fine  ;  that's  health  o' 
mind  and  body.  Mr.  Leslie,  here's  to  you,  sir.  'Od, 
it's  harder  to  end  than  to  begin  wi'  stuff  like  that. 

SCENE    III 
To  these,  Smith  and  Jean,  C. 

Smith.  Is  the  king  of  the  castle  in,  please  ?  g^  <j 

Lawson  (aside).  Lord's  sake,  it's  Smith! 

Brodie  (to  Smith).  I  beg  your  pardon  ? 

Smith.  I  beg  yours,  sir.  If  you  please,  sir,  is  Mr. 
Brodie  at  home,  sir  ? 

Brodie.  What  do  you  want  with  him,  my  man  ? 

Smith.  I've  a  message  for  him,  sir,  a  job  of  work, 
sir  ! 

Brodie  (to  Smith  ;  referring  to  Jean).  And  who 
is  this  ? 

1 1 


Sc.  3 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  Jean.  I  am  here  for  the  Procurator,  about  my  rent. 

j  There's  nae  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Lawson.   It's  just  an  honest  wife  I  let  a  flat  to  in 
Libberton's  Wynd.     It'll  be  for  the  rent  ? 
Jean.  Just  that,  sir. 

Lawson.  Weel,  we  can  just  bide  here  a  wee,  and 
I'll  step  down  the  road  to  my  office  wi'  ye.  (Exeunt 
Brodie,  Lawson,  Leslie,  C.) 

SCENE   IV 
Smith,  Jean  Watt,  Old  Brodie 
Sc.  4  SMITH  (bowing  them  out).  Your  humble  and  most 

devoted  servant,  George  Smith,  Esquire.  And  so  this 
is  the  garding,  is  it  ?  And  this  is  the  style  of  horti- 
culture ?  Ha,  it  is!  (At  the  mirror.)  In  that  case 
George's  mother  bids  him  bind  his  hair.  (Kisses  his 
hand.)  My  dearest  Duchess,—  (T^Jean.)  I  say, 
Jean,  there's  a  good  deal  of  difference  between  this 
sort  of  thing  and  the  way  we  does  it  in  Libberton's 
Wynd. 

Jean.  I  daursay.     And  what  wad  ye  expeck  ? 

Smith.  Ah,  Jean,  if  you'd  cast  affection's  glance 
on  this  poor  but  honest  soger  !  George  Lord  S.  is  not 
the  nobleman  to  cut  the  object  of  his  flame  before  the 
giddy  throng  ;  nor  to  keep  her  boxed  up  in  an  old 
mouse-trap,  while  he  himself  is  revelling  in  purple 
splendours  like  these.  He  didn't  know  you,  Jean  :  he 
was  afraid  to.  Do  you  call  that  a  man  ?  Try  a  man 
that  is. 

12 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Jean.  Geordie  Smith,  ye  ken  vera  weel  I'll  tak'  I 

nane  o'  that  sort  of  talk  frae  you.     And  what  kind  o'  j 

a  man  are  you  to  even  yoursel'  to  the  likes  o'  him  ?      c 
He's  a  gentleman. 

Smith.  Ah,  ain't  he  just !  And  don't  he  live  up  to 
it  ?     I  say,  Jean,  feel  of  this  chair. 

Jean.  My  !  look  at  yon  bed  ! 

Smith.  The  carpet  too  !  Axminster,  by  the  bones 
of  Oliver  Cromwell ! 

Jean.  What  a  expense  ! 

Smith.  Hey,  brandy  !     The  deuce  of  the  grape  I 
Have  a  toothful,  Mrs.  Watt.     [(Slugs) — 
'  Says  Bacchus  to  Venus, 
There's  brandy  between  us, 
And  the  cradle  of  love  is  the  bowl,  the  bowl ! '] 

Jean.  Nane  for  me,  I  thank  ye,  Mr.  Smith. 

Smith.  What  brings  the  man  from  stuff  like  this 
to  rotgut  and  spittoons  at  Mother  Clarke's  ;  but  ah, 
George,  you  was  born  for  a  higher  spear  !  And  so 
was  you,  Mrs.  Watt,  though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't. 
(Seeing  Old  Brodie/^  the  first  time.)  Hullo  !  it's 
a  man  ! 

Jean.  Thonder  in  the  chair.  {They  go  to  look  at 
him,  their  backs  to  the  door.) 

George.  Is  he  alive  ? 

Jean.   I  think  there's  something  wrong  with  him. 

George.  And  how  was  you  to-morrow,  my  valued 
old  gentleman,  eh  ? 

Jean.  Dinna  mak'  a  mock  o'  him,  Geordie. 

13 


I 
Sc.  4 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  Old    Brodie.  My  son — the    Deacon — Deacon  of 

his  trade. 

Jean.  He'll  be  his  feyther.  (Hunt  appears  at 
door  C,  and  stands  looking  on.) 

Smith.  The  Deacon's  old  man  !  Well,  he  couldn't 
expect  to  have  his  quiver  full  of  sich,  could  he,  Jean? 
(To  Old  Brodie.)  Ah,  my  Christian  soldier,  if  you 
had,  the  world  would  have  been  more  varigated. 
Mrs.  Deakin  {to  Jean),  let  me  introduce  you  to  your 
dear  papa. 

Jean.  Think  shame  to  yoursel'  !  This  is  the 
Deacon's  house  ;  you  and  me  shouldna  be  here  by 
rights  ;  and  if  we  are,  its  the  least  we  can  do  to 
behave  dacent.  [This  is  no  the  way  ye'll  mak'  me 
like  ye.] 

Smith.  All  right,  Duchess.     Don't  be  angry. 

SCENE  V 

To  these,  Hunt,  C.     {He  steals  down,  and  claps  each 
one  suddenly  on  the  shoulder?) 

Sc.  K  HUNT.  Is  there  a  gentleman  here  by  the  name  of 

Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal  ? 

Smith  (pulling  himself  together).  D n  it,  Jerry, 

what  do  you  mean  by  startling  an  old  customer  like 
that  ? 

Hunt.  What,  my  brave  un'  ?  You're  the  very 
party  I  was  looking  for  ! 

Smith.  There's  nothing  out  against  me  this  time  ? 

H 


Sc.  5 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

HUNT.   I'll  take  odds  there  is.     But  it  ain't  in  my  I 

hands.     (To  Old   Brodie.)  You'll  excuse  me,  old  x 

genelman  ? 

Smith.  Ah,  well,  if  it's  all  in  the  way  of  friend- 
ship !  .  .  .  I  say,  Jean,  [you  and  me  had  best  be  on 
the  toddle.]     We  shall  be  late  for  church. 

Hunt.  Lady,  George  ? 

Smith.   It's  a yes,  it's  a   lady.     Come    along, 

Jean. 

Hunt.  A  Mrs.  Deacon,  I  believe  ?  [That  was  the 
name,  I  think  ?]  Won't  Mrs.  Deacon  let  me  have  a 
queer  at  her  phiz  ? 

Jean  (unmuffling).  I've  naething  to  be  ashamed 
of.  My  name's  Mistress  Watt  ;  I'm  weel  kennt  at 
the  Wynd  heid  ;  there's  naething  again  me. 

Hunt.  No,  to  be  sure,  there  ain't  ;  and  why  clap 
on  the  blinkers,  my  dear  ?  You  that  has  a  face  like 
a  rose,  and  with  a  cove  like  Jerry  Hunt  that  might  be 
your  born  father  ?  [But  all  this  don't  tell  me  about 
Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal.] 

GEORGE  (in  an  agony).  Jean,  Jean,  we  shall  be 
late.  (Going  with  attempted  swagger.)  Well,  ta-ta, 
Jerry. 

SCENE  VI 

To  these,   C,  Brodie  and  Lawson  (greatcoat, 
muffler,  lantern). 

Lawson  (from   the    door).      Come    your    ways,      Sc.  6 
Mistress  Watt. 

15 


Sc.  6 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  Jean.  That's  the  Fiscal  himsel'. 

t  Hunt.  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  I  believe  ? 

Lawson.  That's  me.     Who'll  you  be  ? 

Hunt.  Hunt  the  Runner,  sir  ;  Hunt  from  Bow- 
Street  ;   English  warrant. 

Lawson.  There's  a  place  for  a'  things,  officer. 
Come  your  ways  to  my  office,  with  me  and  this  guid 
wife. 

Brodie  (aside  to  Jean,  as  she  passes  with  a 
curtsey).  How  dare  you  be  here  ?  {Aloud  to  Smith.) 
Wait  you  here,  my  man. 

Smith.  If  you  please,  sir.     (Brodie  goes  out,  C.) 

SCENE   VII 
Brodie,  Smith 

Sc_  7         Brodie.  What  the  devil  brings  you  here  ? 

Smith.    C<?//found  it,  Deakin  !     Not  rusty  ? 

[Brodie.  And  not  you  only  :  Jean  too  !  Are  you 
mad  ? 

Smith.  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say,  Deakin, 
that  you  have  been  stodged  by  G.  Smith,  Esquire  ? 
Plummy  old  George  ?] 

Brodie.  There  was  my  uncle  the  Procurator 

Smith.   The  Fiscal  ?     He  don't  count. 

Brodie.  What  d'ye  mean  ? 

Smith.  Well,  Deakin,  since  Fiscal  Lawson's 
Nunkev  Lawson,  and  it's  all  in  the  family  way, 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  Nunkey  Lawson's  a 
16 


Sc.  7 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

customer  of  George's.     We  give  Nunkey  Lawson  a 
good  deal  of  brandy — G.    S.    and  Co.'s   celebrated  t 

Nantz. 

Brodie.  What !  does  he  buy  that  smuggled  trash 
of  yours  ? 

Smith.  Well,  we  don't  call  it  smuggled  in  the 
trade,  Deakin.  It's  a  wink,  and  King  George's  picter 
between  G.  S.  and  the  Nunks. 

Brodie.  Gad  !  that's  worth  knowing.  O  Procu- 
rator, Procurator,  is  there  no  such  thing  as  virtue  ? 
[Allots  /  It's  enough  to  cure  a  man  of  vice  for  this 
world  and  the  other.]  But  hark  you  hither,  Smith  ; 
this  is  all  damned  well  in  its  way,  but  it  don't  explain 
what  brings  you  here. 

Smith.  I've  trapped  a  pigeon  for  you. 

Brodie.   Can't  you  pluck  him  yourself? 

Smith.  Not  me.  He's  too  flash  in  the  feather  for 
a  simple  nobleman  like  George  Lord  Smith.  It's  the 
great  Capting  Starlight,  fresh  in  from  York.  [He's 
exercised  his  noble  art  all  the  way  from  here  to 
London.  '  Stand  and  deliver,  stap  my  vitals  ! ']  And 
the  north  road  is  no  bad  lay,  Deakin. 

Brodie.  Flush  ? 

Smith  (mimicking).  '  The  graziers,  split  me  !  A 
mail,  stap  my  vitals  !  and  seven  demned  farmers,  by 
the  Lard — ' 

Brodie.  By  Gad  ! 

Smith.  Good  for  trade,  ain't  it  ?  And  we  thought, 
Deakin,  the  Badger  and  me,  that  coins  being  ever  on 

17 


Sc.  7 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

the  vanish,  and  you  not  over  sweet  on  them  there 
j  lovely  little  locks  at  Leslie's,  and  them  there  bigger 

and  uglier  marine  stores  at  the  Excise  Office.  .   .  . 

Brodie  {impassible).   Go  on. 

Smith.  Worse  luck  !  .  .  .  We  thought,  me  and  the 
Badger,  you  know,  that  maybe  you'd  like  to  exercise 
your  helbow  with  our  free  and  galliant  horseman. 

Brodie.  The  old  move,  I  presume  ?  the  double 
set  of  dice  ? 

Smith.  That's  the  rig,  Deakin.  What  you  drop 
on  the  square  you  pick  up  again  on  the  cross.  [Just 
as  you  did  with  G.  S.  and  Co.'s  own  agent  and  corre- 
spondent, the  Admiral  from  Nantz.]  You  always  was 
a  neat  hand  with  the  bones,  Deakin. 

Brodie.  The  usual  terms,  I  suppose  ? 

Smith.  The  old  discount,  Deakin.  Ten  in  the 
pound  for  you,  and  the  rest  for  your  jolly  companions 
every  one.     \Thafs  the  way  we  does  it !] 

Brodie.  Who  has  the  dice  ? 

Smith.  Our  mutual  friend,  the  Candleworm. 

Brodie.  You  mean  Ainslie  ? — We  trust  that  crea- 
ture too  much,  Geordie. 

Smith.  He's  all  right,  Marcpuis.  He  wouldn't  lay 
a  finger  on  his  own  mother.  Why,  he's  no  more 
guile  in  him  than  a  set  of  sheep's  trotters. 

[Brodie.  You  think  so  ?  Then  see  he  don't  cheat 
you  over  the  dice,  and  give  you  light  for  loaded.  See 
to  that,  George,  see  to  that ;  and  you  may  count  the 
Captain  as  bare  as  his  last  grazier. 

18 


Sc.  7 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Smith.  The  Black  Flag  forever  !     George'll  trot  I 

him  round  to  Mother  Clarke's  in  two  twos.]     How  j 

long'll  you  be  ? 

Brodie.  The  time  to  lock  up  and  go  to  bed,  and 
I'll  be  with  you.     Can  you  find  your  way  out  ? 

Smith.  Bloom  on,  my  Sweet  William,  in  peaceful 
array.     Ta-ta. 

SCENE  VIII 

Brodie,  Old  Brodie  ;    to  whom,  Mary 

Mary.  O  Willie,  I  am  glad  you  did  not  go  with  Sc.  8 
them.  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  If  you  knew 
how  happy  I  am,  you  would  clap  your  hands,  Will. 
But  come,  sit  you  down  there,  and  be  my  good  big 
brother,  and  I  will  kneel  here  and  take  your  hand. 
We  must  keep  close  to  dad,  and  then  he  will  feel 
happiness  in  the  air.  The  poor  old  love,  if  we  could 
only  tell  him  !  But  I  sometimes  think  his  heart  has 
gone  to  heaven  already,  and  takes  a  part  in  all  our 
joys  and  sorrows  ;  and  it  is  only  his  poor  body  that 
remains  here,  helpless  and  ignorant.  Come,  Will, 
sit  you  down,  and -ask  me  questions — or  guess — that 
will  be  better,  guess. 

Brodie.  Not  to-night,  Mary  ;  not  to-night.   I  have 
other  fish  to  fry,  and  they  won't  wait. 

Mary.  Not  one  minute  for  your  sister  ?  One  little 
minute  for  your  little  sister? 

Brodie.  Minutes  are  precious,  Mary.     I  have  to 
work  for  all    of    us,  and  the  clock  is  always  busy. 


Sc.8 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

They  are  waiting  for  me  even  now.  Help  me  with 
j  the  dad's  chair.     And  then  to  bed,  and  dream  happy 

things.  And  to-morrow  morning  I  will  hear  your  news 
— your  good  news  ;  it  must  be  good,  you  look  so 
proud  and  glad.     But  to-night  it  cannot  be. 

Mary.  I  hate  your  business — I  hate  all  business. 
To  think  of  chairs,  and  tables,  and  foot-rules,  all  dead 
and  wooden — and  cold  pieces  of  money  with  the 
King's  ugly  head  on  them  ;  and  here  is  your  sister, 
your  pretty  sister,  if  you  please,  with  something  to 
tell,  which  she  would  not  tell  you  for  the  world,  and 
would  give  the  world  to  have  you  guess,  and  you 
won't  ? — Not  you  !  For  business  !  Fie,  Deacon 
Brodie  !     But  I'm  too  happy  to  find  fault  with  you. 

BRODIE.  '  And  me  a  Deacon,'  as  the  Procurator 
would  say. 

Mary.  No  such  thing,  sir  !  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid 
of  you — nor  a  bit  angry  neither.  Give  me  a  kiss,  and 
promise  me  hours  and  hours  to-morrow  morning. 

Brodie.  All  day  long  to-morrow,  if  you  like. 

Mary.  Business  or  none  ? 

Brodie.  Business  or  none,  little  sister  !  I'll  make 
time,  I  promise  you  ;  and  there's  another  kiss  for 
surety.  Come  along.  ( They  proceed  to  push  out  the 
chair,  L.C.)  The  wine  and  wisdom  of  this  evening 
have  given  me  one  of  my  headaches,  and  I'm  in  haste 
for  bed.  You'll  be  good,  won't  you,  and  see  they 
make  no  noise,  and  let  me  sleep  my  fill  to-morrow 


morning  till  I  wake  ? 
20 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Mary.    Poor   Will  !     How   selfish    I    must    have  I 

seemed  !     You  should  have  told  me  sooner,  and  I  j 

wouldn't  have  worried  you.     Come  along. 

(She  goes  out,  pushing  chair.) 


Sc.8 


SCENE  IX 

Brodie 

{He  closes,  locks,  and  double-bolts  both  doors) 

Brodie.  Now  for  one  of  the  Deacon's  headaches  !  Sc. 
Rogues  all,  rogues  all!  {Goes  to  clothes-press,  and 
proceeds  to  change  his  coat.)  On  with  the  new  coat 
and  into  the  new  life  !  Down  with  the  Deacon  and 
up  with  the  robber  !  {Changing  neck-band 'ana 'ruffles.) 
Eh  God  !  how  still  the  house  is  !  There's  something 
in  hypocrisy  after  all.  If  we  were  as  good  as  we  seem, 
what  would  the  world  be  ?  [The  city  has  its  vizard 
on,  and  we — at  night  we  are  our  naked  selves.  Trysts 
are  keeping,  bottles  cracking,  knives  are  stripping  ; 
and  here  is  Deacon  Brodie  flaming  forth  the  man  of 
men  he  is  !] — How  still  it  is  !  .  .  .  My  father  and 
Mary — Well !  the  day  for  them,  the  night  for  me  ; 
the  grimy  cynical  night  that  makes  all  cats  grey,  and 
all  honesties  of  one  complexion.  Shall  a  man  not 
have  half  a  life  of  his  own  ? — not  eight  hours  out  of 
twenty-four  ?  [Eight  shall  he  have  should  he  dare 
the  pit  of  Tophet.]  {Takes  out  money.)  Where's  the 
blunt  ?  I  must  be  cool  to-night,  or  .  .  .  steady, 
Deacon,  you  must  win  ;  damn  you,  you  must  !    You 

21 


Sc.  9 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

must   win   back  the  dowry  that  you've  stolen,  and 
j  marry  your  sister,  and  pay  your  debts,  and  gull  the 

world  a  little  longer  !  (As  he  blows  out  the  lights) 
The  Deacon's  going  to  bed — the  poor  sick  Deacon  ! 
Allons  !  (Throws  up  the  window,  and  looks  out.) 
Only  the  stars  to  see  me  !  (Addressing  the  bed.)  Lie 
there,  Deacon  !  sleep  and  be  well  to-morrow.  As  for 
me,  I'm  a  man  once  more  till  morning.  (Gels  out  of 
the  window.) 

TABLEAU    II 

Hunt  the  Runner 

The  Scene  represents   the  Procurator1  s  Office. 

SCENE  I 
Lawson,    Hunt 
[LAWSON  (entering).   Step  your  ways  in,    Officer. 


II 

Sc.  i 


(At  whig)  Mr.  Carfrae,  give  a  chair  to  yon  decent 
wife  that  cam'  in  wi'  me.     Nae  news  ? 

A  VOICE  without.  Naething,  sir. 

Lawson  (sitting).  Weel,  Officer,  and  what  can  I 
do  for  you  ?] 

Hunt.  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  saying,  I've  an  English 
warrant  for  the  apprehension  of  one  Jemmy  Rivers, 
alias  Captain  Starlight,  now  at  large  within  your 
jurisdiction. 

Lawson.  That'll  be  the  highwayman  ? 

HUNT.  That  same,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal.  The 
Captain's  given  me  a  hard  hunt  of  it  this  time.     I 

22 


Sc.  i 


THE    DOUBLE     LIFE 

dropped  on  his  marks  first  at  Huntingdon,  but  he  was 
away  North,  and  I  had  to  up  and  after  him.    I  heard  TT 

of  him  all  along  the  York  road,  for  he's  a  light  hand 
on  the  pad,  has  Jemmy,  and  leaves  his  mark.  [I 
missed  him  at  York  by  four-and-twenty  hours,  and 
lost  him  for  as  much  more.  Then  I  picked  him  up 
again  at  Carlisle,  and  we  made  a  race  of  it  for  the 
Border  ;  but  he'd  a  better  nag,  and  was  best  up  in 
the  road  ;  so  I  had  to  wait  till  I  ran  him  to  earth  in 
Edinburgh  here  and  could  get  a  new  warrant.]  So 
here  I  am,  sir.  They  told  me  you  were  an  active  sort 
of  gentleman,  and  I'm  an  active  man  myself.  And 
Sir  John  Fielding,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  he's  an 
active  gentleman,  likewise,  though  he's  blind  as  ahim- 
age,  and  he  desired  his  compliments  to  you,  [sir,  and 
said  that  between  us  he  thought  we'd  do  the  trick]. 

Lawson.  Ay,  he'll  be  a  fine  man,  Sir  John.  Hand 
me  owre  your  papers,  Hunt,  and  you'll  have  your 
new  warrant  quam  primron.  And  see  here,  Hunt, 
ye'll  aiblins  have  a  while  to  yoursel',  and  an  active 
man,  as  ye  say  ye  are,  should  aye  be  grinding  grist. 
We're  sair  forfeuchen  wi'  our  burglaries.  Non  con- 
stat de persona.  We  canna  get  a  grip  o' the  delin- 
quents. Here  is  the  Hue  and  Cry.  Ye  see  there  is 
a  guid  two  hundred  pounds  for  ye. 

Hunt.  Well,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal  [I  ain't  a  rich 
man,  and  two  hundred's  two  hundred.  Thereby,  sir], 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  I've  had  a  bit  of  a  worry  at 
it  already.    You  see,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal,  I  had  to 

23 


Sc.  i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

look  into  a  ken  to-night  about  the  Captain,  and  an 
jj  old  cock  always  likes  to  be  sure  of  his  walk  ;  so  I  got 

one  of  your  Scotch  officers — him  as  was  so  polite  as 
to  show  me  round  to  Mr.  Brodie's — to  give  me  full 
particulars  about  the  'ouse,  and  the  flash  companions 
that  use  it.  In  his  list  I  drop  on  the  names  of  two 
old  lambs  of  my  own  ;  and  I  put  it  to  you,  Mr.  Pro- 
curator-Fiscal, as  a  genleman  as  knows  the  world,  if 
what's  a  black  sheep  in  London  is  likely  or  not  to  be 
keeping  school  in  Edinburgh  ? 

Lawson.   Coelum  non  animum.     A  just  observe. 

Hunt.  I'll  give  it  a  thought,  sir,  and  see  if  I  can't 
kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  Talking  of  which,  Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal,  I'd  like  to  have  a  bit  of  a  confab 
with  that  nice  young  woman  as  came  to  pay  her  rent. 

Lawson.  Hunt,  that's  a  very  decent  woman. 

Hunt.  And  a  very  decent  woman  may  have  mighty 
queer  pals,  Mr.  Procurator-Fiscal.  Lord  love  you, 
sir,  I  don't  know  what  the  profession  would  do  with- 
out 'em  ! 

Lawson.  Ye're  vera  richt,  Hunt.  An  active  and 
a  watchful  officer.     I'll  send  her  in  till  ye. 

SCENE  II 

Hunt  {solus) 

Sc.  2  Two  hundred  pounds  reward.    Curious  thing.    One 

burglary  after  another,  and  these  Scotch  blockheads 

without  a  man  to  show  for  it.     Jock  runs  east,  and 

Sawney  cuts  west ;  everything's  at  a  deadlock  ;  and 

24 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

they  go  on  calling  themselves  thief-catchers  !     [By  I 

Jingo,    I'll   show  them  how  we    do  it  down  South  !  jj 

Well,  I've  worn  out  a  good  deal  of  saddle  leather  c  0 
over  Jemmy  Rivers  ;  but  here's  for  new  breeches  if 
you  like.]  Let's  have  another  queer  at  the  list. 
(Reads.)  '  Humphrey  Moore,  otherwise  Badger  ; 
aged  forty,  thick-set,  dark,  close-cropped  ;  has  been 
a  prize-fighter  ;  no  apparent  occupation.'  Badger's 
an  old  friend  of  mine,  '  George  Smith,  otherwise  the 
Dook,  otherwise  Jingling  Geordie  ;  red-haired  and 
curly,  slight,  flash  ;  an  old  thimble-rig  ;  has  been  a 
stroller  ;  suspected  of  smuggling ;  an  associate  of 
loose  women.'  G.  S.,  Esquire,  is  another  of  my 
flock.  '  Andrew  Ainslie,  otherwise  Slink  Ainslie  ; 
aged  thirty -five  ;  thin,  white-faced,  lank-haired  ;  no 
occupation  ;  has  been  in  trouble  for  reset  of  theft 
and  subornation  of  youth  ;  might  be  useful  as  king's 
evidence.'  That's  an  acquaintance  to  make.  'Jock 
Hamilton,  otherwise  Sweepie,'  and  so  on.  ['  Willie 
M'Glashan,'  hum — yes,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.]  Ha  ! 
here's  the  man  I  want.  '  William  Brodie,  Deacon 
of  the  Wrights,  about  thirty  ;  tall,  slim,  dark  ;  wears 
his  own  hair  ;  is  often  at  Clarke's,  but  seemingly 
for  purposes  of  amusement  only  ;  [is  nephew  to  the 
Procurator-Fiscal ;  is  commercially  sound,  but  has  of 
late  (it  is  supposed)  been  short  of  cash  ;  has  lost  much 
at  cock-fighting  ;]  is  proud,  clever,  of  good  repute,  but 
is  fond  of  adventures  and  secrecy,  and  keeps  low 
company.'     Now,  here's  what  I  ask  myself :  here's 

25 


Sc.  2 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

this  list  of  the  family  party  that  drop  into  Mother 
jr  Clarke's  ;  it's  been  in  the  hands  of  these  nincompoops 

for  weeks,  and  I'm  the  first  to  cry  Queer  Street ! 
Two  well-known  cracksmen,  Badger  and  the  Dook  ! 
why,  there's  Jack  in  the  Orchard  at  once.  This  here 
topsawyer  work  they  talk  about,  of  course  that's  a 
chalk  above  Badger  and  the  Dook.  But  how  about 
our  Mohock-tradesman  ?  '  Purposes  of  amusement ! ' 
What  next  ?  Deacon  of  the  Wrights  ?  and  wright  in 
their  damned  lingo  means  a  kind  of  carpenter,  I 
fancy  ?  Why,  damme,  its  the  man's  trade  !  I'll 
look  you  up,  Mr.  William  Brodie,  Deacon  of  the 
Wrights.  As  sure  as  my  name's  Jerry  Hunt,  I 
wouldn't  take  one-ninety-nine  in  gold  for  my  chance 
of  that  'ere  two  hundred  ! 

SCENE  III 
Hunt  ;  to  him  Jean 

HUNT.  Well,  my  dear,  and  how  about  your  gentle- 
man friend  now  ?     How  about  Deacon  Brodie  ? 

Jean.  I  dinna  ken  your  name,  sir,  nor  yet  whae  ye 
are  ;  but  this  is  a  very  poor  employ  for  ony  gentle- 
man— it  sets  ill  wi'  ony  gentleman  to  cast  my  shame 
in  my  teeth. 

Hunt.  Lord  love  you,  my  dear,  that  ain't  my 
line  of  country.  Suppose  you're  not  married  and 
churched  a  hundred  thousand  times,  what  odds  to 
Jerry  Hunt  ?     Jerry,  my  Pamela  Prue,  is  a  cove  as 

26 


Sc.3 


Sc.  3 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

might  be  your  parent  ;  a  cove  renowned  for  the 
ladies'  friend  [and  he's  dead  certain  to  be  on  your  IT 

side].  What  I  can't  get  over  is  this  :  here's  this 
Mr.  Deacon  Brodie  doing  the  genteel  at  home,  and 
leaving  a  nice  young  'oman  like  you — as  a  cove  may 
say — to  take  it  out  on  cold  potatoes.  That's  what  I 
can't  get  over,  Mrs.  Watt.  I'm  a  family  man  myself; 
and  I  can't  get  over  it. 

Jean.  And  whae  said  that  to  ye  ?  They  lee'd  what- 
ever. I  get  naething  but  guid  by  him  ;  and  I  had 
nae  richt  to  gang  to  his  house  ;  and  O,  I  just  ken 
I've  been  the  ruin  of  him. 

Hunt.  Don't  you  take  on,  Mrs.  Watt.  Why,  now 
I  hear  you  piping  up  for  him,  I  begin  to  think  a  lot  of 
him  myself.   I  like  a  cove  to  be  open-handed  and  free. 

Jean.  Weel,  sir,  and  he's  a'  that. 

Hunt.     Well,  that  shows  what  a  wicked  world  this 

is.     Why,  they  told  me .     Well,  well,  '  here's  the 

open  'and  and  the  'appy  'art.'  And  how  much,  my 
dear — speaking  as  a  family  man — now,  how  much 
might  your  gentleman  friend  stand  you  in  the  course 
of  a  year  ? 

Jean.  What's  your  wull  ? 

Hunt.  That's  amighty  fancy  shawl,  Mrs.  Watt.  [I 
should  like  to  take  its  next-door  neighbour  to  Mrs. 
Hunt  in  King  Street,  Common  Garden.]  What's 
about  the  figure  ? 

Jean.  It's  paid  for.     Ye  can  sweir  to  that. 

Hunt.  Yes,    my  dear,  and  so  is  King  George's 

27 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

crown  ;  but  I  don't  know  what  it  cost,  and  I  don't 


II 


Sc.  3 


know  where  the  blunt  came  from  to  pay  for  it. 

JEAN.  I'm  thinking  ye'll  be  a  vera  clever  gentleman. 

Hunt.  So  I  am,  my  dear  ;  and  I  like  you  none 
the  worse  for  being  artful  yourself.  But  between 
friends  now,  and  speaking  as  a  family  man 

Jean.  I'll  be  wishin'  ye  a  fine  nicht.  {Curtsies  and 
goes  out.) 

SCENE  IV 

Hunt  (solus) 

Sc.  4  HUNT.  Ah  !  that's  it,  is  it  ?     '  My  fancy  man's  my 

'ole  delight,'  as  we  say  in  Bow  Street.  But  which  is 
the  fancy  man  ?  George  the  Dook,  or  William  the 
Deacon  ?  One  or  both  ?  (He  winks  solemnly.)  Well, 
Jerry,  my  boy,  here's  your  work  cut  out  for  you  ;  but 
if  you  took  one-nine-five  for  that  'ere  little  two  hun- 
dred you'd  be  a  disgrace  to  the  profession. 

TABLEAU    III 

Mother  Clarke's 

SCENE    I 

The  Stage  represents  a  room  of  coarse  and  sordid  appearance  ;  settles, 
spittoons,  etc.  ;  sanded  floor.     A  large  table  at  back,  inhere  Ainslih, 
HAMILTON,  and  others  are  playing  cards  and  quarrelling:     In  front, 
T  L.  and  R.  smaller  tables,  at  one  of  which  are  Brodie  and  Moorh, 

drinking.     Mrs.  Clarkb  and  women  serving. 

111  Moore.  You've  got  the  devil's  own  luck,  Deacon, 

oC.  I      that's  what  you've  got. 
28 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie.   Luck  !     Don't  talk  of  luck  to  a  man  like  I 

me!     Why  not  say  I've  the  devil's  own  judgment?         jjj 
Men    of  my  stamp  don't  risk— they    plan,   Badger  ;      c 
they    plan,  and  leave  chance  to  such  cattle  as  you 
[and  Jingling    Geordie.     They    make   opportunities 
before  they  take  them]. 

MOORE.  You're  artful,  ain't  you? 

Brodie.  Should  I  be  here  else  ?  When  I  leave 
my  house  I  leave  an  alibi  behind  me.  I'm  ill — ill 
with  a  jumping  headache,  and  the  fiend's  own  temper. 
I'm  sick  in  bed  this  minute,  and  they're  all  going 
about  with  the  fear  of  death  on  them  lest  they  should 
disturb  the  poor  sick  Deacon.  [My  bedroom  door  is 
barred  and  bolted  like  the  bank — you  remember  !  — 
and  all  the  while  the  window's  open,  and  the  Deacon's 
over  the  hills  and  far  away.  What  do  you  think  of 
me  ?] 

MOORE.   I've  seen  your  sort  before,  I  have. 

Brodie.  Not  you.     As  for  Leslie's 

MOORE.   That  was  a  nick  above  you. 

Brodie.  Ay  was  it.  He  wellnigh  took  me  red- 
handed  ;  and  that  was  better  luck  than  I  deserved. 
If  I'd  not  been  drunk,  and  in  my  tantrums,  you'd 
never  have  got  my  hand  within  a  thousand  years  of 
such  a  job. 

Moore.  Why  not  ?  You're  the  King  of  the 
Cracksmen,  ain't  you? 

Brodie.  Why  not !  He  asks  me  why  not !  Gods, 
what  a  brain  it  is !     Hark  ye,  Badger,  it's  all  very 

29 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  well  to  be  King  of  the  Cracksmen,  as  you  call  it  ;  but 

III  however  respectable  he  may  have  the  misfortune  to 
Sc  I  ke'  one's  friend  is  one's  friend,  and  as  such  must  be 
severely  let  alone.  What  !  shall  there  be  no  more 
honour  among  thieves  than  there  is  honesty  among 
politicians  ?  Why,  man,  if  under  heaven  there  were 
but  one  poor  lock  unpicked,  and  that  the  lock  of  one 
whose  claret  you've  drunk,  and  who  has  babbled  of 
woman  across  your  own  mahogany — that  lock,  sir, 
were  entirely  sacred.  Sacred  as  the  Kirk  of  Scot- 
land ;  sacred  as  King  George  upon  his  throne  ;  sacred 
as  the  memory  of  Bruce  and  Bannockburn. 

MOORE.  Oh,  rot  !  I  ain't  a  parson,  I  ain't  ;  I 
never  had  no  college  education.  Business  is  busi- 
ness.    That's  wot's  the  matter  with  me. 

Brodie.  Ay,  so  we  said  when  you  lost  that  fight 
with  Newcastle  Jemmy,  and  sent  us  all  home  poor 
men.     That  was  a  nick  above  you. 

MOORE.  Newcastle  Jemmy !  Muck  :  that's  my 
opinion  of  him  :  muck.  I'll  mop  the  floor  up  with 
him  any  day,  if  so  be  as  you  or  any  on  'em  '11  make 
it  worth  my  while.  If  not,  muck  !  That's  my  motto. 
Wot  I  now  ses  is,  about  that  'ere  crib  at  Leslie's,  wos 
I  right,  I  ses  ?  or  wos  I  wrong  ?  That's  wot's  the 
matter  with  you. 

Brodie.  You  are  both  right  and  wrong.  You  dared 
me  to  do  it.     I  was  drunk  ;  I  was  upon  my  mettle  ;  ' 
and    I    as   good   as  did  it.     More  than  that,  black- 
guardly as  it  was,  I  enjoyed  the  doing.     He  is  my  • 

30 


THE    DOUBLE     LIFE 

friend.  He  had  dined  with  me  that  day,  and  I  felt 
like  a  man  in  a  story.  I  climbed  his  wall,  I  crawled  ni 
along  his  pantry  roof,  I  mounted  his  window-sill.  o  T 
That  one  turn  of  my  wrist — you  know  it  ! — and  the 
casement  was  open.  It  was  as  dark  as  the  pit,  and 
I  thought  I'd  won  my  wager,  when,  phewt !  down 
went  something  inside,  and  down  went  somebody 
with  it.  I  made  one  leap,  and  was  off  like  a  rocket. 
It  was  my  poor  friend  in  person  ;  and  if  he'd  caught 
and  passed  me  on  to  the  watchman  under  the  win- 
dow, I  should  have  felt  no  viler  rogue  than  I  feel 
just  now. 

MOORE.  I  s'pose  he  knows  you  pretty  well  by  this 
time  ? 

BRODIE.  'Tis  the  worst  of  friendship.  Here,  Kirsty, 
fill  these  glasses.  Moore,  here's  better  luck— and  a 
more  honourable  plant ! — next  time. 

MOORE.  Deacon,  I  looks  towards  you.  But  it 
looks  thundering  like  rotten  eggs,  don't  it  ? 

Brodie.  I  think  not.  I  was  masked,  for  one  thing, 
and  for  another  I  was  as  quick  as  lightning.  He  sus- 
pects me  so  little  that  he  dined  with  me  this  very 
afternoon. 

MOORE.  Anyway,  you  ain't  game  to  try  it  on  again, 
I'll  lay  odds  on  that.  Once  bit,  twice  shy.  That's 
your  motto. 

Brodie.  Right  again.  I'll  put  my  alibi  to  a  better 
use.  And,  Badger,  one  word  in  your  ear  :  there's 
no  Newcastle  Jemmy  about  me.     Drop  the  subject, 

3i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

and  for  good,  or  I  shall  drop  you.     {He  rises,  and 


III 

Sc.  i 


walks  backwards  and  forwards,  a  little  unsteadily. 
Then  returns,  and  sits  L.,  as  before.) 

SCENE    II 
To  these,  Hunt,  disguised 

He  is  disguised  as  a  '■Jlying  stationer''  ivitk  a  patch  over  his  eye. 

He  sits  at  table  opposite  Brodie's,  and  is  served  ivitk 

bread  and  cheese  and  beer 

Sc_  2  HAMILTON  {from  behind).     The  deevil  tak'   the 

cairts  ! 

Ainslie.  Hoot,  man,  dinna  blame  the  cairts. 

MOORE.  Look  here,  Deacon,  I  mean  business,  I 
do.      (HUNT  looks  up  at  the  name  of '  Deacon.') 

Brodie.  Gad,  Badger,  I  never  meet  you  that  you 
do  not.  [You  have  a  set  of  the  most  commercial 
intentions  !]     You  make  me  blush. 

MOORE.  That's  all  blazing  fine,  that  is!  But  wot 
I  ses  is,  wot  about  the  chips  ?  That's  what  I  ses. 
I'm  after  that  thundering  old  Excise  Office,  I  am. 
That's  my  motto. 

Brodie.  'Tis  a  very  good  motto,  and  at  your  lips, 
Badger,  it  kind  of  warms  my  heart.  But  it's  not 
mine. 

Moore.  Muck  !  why  not  ? 

Brodie.  'Tis  too  big  and  too  dangerous.  I  shirk 
King  George ;  he  has  a  fat  pocket,  but  he  has  a  long 
arm.     [You  pilfer  sixpence  from  him,  and  it's  three 

32 


THE    DOUBLE     LIFE 

hundred  reward  for  you,  and  a   hue  and   cry  from 
Tophet  to  the  stars.]     It  ceases  to  be  business  ;  it         m 
turns  politics,  and  I'm  not  a  politician,  Mr.  Moore.      c      2 
(Risifig.)     I'm  only  Deacon  Brodie. 

MOORE.  All  right.     I  can  wait. 

Brodie  (seeing  Hunt).  Ha,  a  new  face, — and  with 
a  patch !  [There's  nothing  under  heaven  I  like  so 
dearly  as  a  new  face  with  a  patch.]  Who  the  devil, 
sir,  are  you  that  own  it  ?  And  where  did  you  get 
it  ?  And  how  much  will  you  take  for  it  second- 
hand ? 

HUNT.  Well,  sir,  to  tell  you  the  truth  (Brodie 
bows)  it's  not  for  sale.  But  it's  my  own,  and  I'll 
drink  your  honour's  health  in  anything. 

Brodie.  An  Englishman,  too!  Badger,  behold  a 
countryman.  What  are  you,  and  what  part  of  southern 
Scotland  do  you  come  from  ? 

Hunt.  Well,  your  honour,  to  tell  you  the  honest 
truth 

[Brodie  (bowing).  Your  obleeged  !] 

Hunt.  I  knows  a  gentleman  when  I  sees  him, 
your  honour  [and,  to  tell  your  honour  the  truth 

Brodie.    Je  vous  baise  les  mains  /     (Bowing.)] 

HUNT.  A  gentleman  as  is  a  gentleman,  your  honour 
[is  always  a  gentleman,  and  to  tell  you  the  honest 
truth] 

Brodie.  Great  heavens  !  answer  in  three  words, 
and  be  hanged  to  you  !  What  are  you,  and  where 
are  you  from  ? 

33 


Sc.  2 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  Hunt.  A  patter-cove  from  Seven  Dials. 

ttj  Brodie.  Is  it  possible  ?     All  my  life  long  have  I 

been  pining  to  meet  with  a  patter-cove  from  Seven 
Dials  !  Embrace  me,  at  a  distance.  [A  patter-cove 
from  Seven  Dials  !]  Go,  fill  yourself  as  drunk  as  you 
dare,  at  my  expense.  Anything  he  likes,  Mrs.  Clarke. 
He's  a  patter-cove  from  Seven  Dials.  Hillo  !  what's 
all  this  ? 

Ainslie.  Dod,  I'm  for  nae  mair  !  (At  back,  and 
rising.) 

Players.  Sit  down,  Ainslie. — Sit  down,  Andra. — 
Ma  revenge  ! 

Ainslie.  Na,  na,  I'm  for  canny  goin'.  {Coming 
forward  with  bottle.)  Deacon,  let's  see  your 
gless. 

Brodie.  Not  an  inch  of  it. 

MOORE.  No  rotten  shirking,  Deacon  ! 

[Ainslie.  I'm  sayin',  man,  let's  see  your  gless. 

Brodie.   Go  to  the  deuce  !] 

Ainslie.  But  I'm  sayin' 

Brodie.  Haven't  I  to  play  to-night  ? 

Ainslie.  But,  man,  ye'll  drink  to  bonnie  Jean 
Watt  ? 

BRODIE.  Ay,  I'll  follow  you  there.  A  la  rcine  de 
mes  amours  /  (Drinks.)  What  fiend  put  this  in  your 
way,  you  hound  ?  You've  filled  me  with  raw  stuff. 
By  the  muckle  deil  ! 

Moore.  Don't  hit  him,  Deacon  ;  tell  his  mother. 

Hunt  (aside).  Oho! 

34 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

I 

SCENE  III  m 

To  these,  Smith,  Rivers  Sc.  3 

Smith.  Where's  my  beloved  ?  Deakin,  my  beauty, 
where  are  you  ?  Come  to  the  arms  of  George,  and 
let  him  introduce  you.  Capting  Starlight  Rivers ! 
Capting,  the  Deakin  :  Deakin,  the  Capting.  An 
English  nobleman  on  the  grand  tour,  to  open  his 
mind,  by  the  Lard  ! 

Rivers.  Stupendously  pleased  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, Mr.  Deakin,  split  me  ! 

[Brodie.  We  don't  often  see  England's  heroes  our 
way,  Captain,  but  when  we  do,  we  make  them  infer- 
nally welcome. 

Rivers.  Prettily  put,  sink  me  !  A  demned  genteel 
sentiment,  stap  my  vitals  !] 

Brodie.  Oh  Captain  !  you  flatter  me.  [We  Scots- 
men have  our  qualities,  I  suppose,  but  we  are  but 
rough  and  ready  at  the  best.  There's  nothing  like 
your  Englishman  for  genuine  distinction.  He  is 
nearer  France  than  we  are,  and  smells  of  his  neigh- 
bourhood.    That  d d  thing,  the  je  lie  sais   quoi, 

too  !  Lard,  Lard,  split  me  !  stap  my  vitals  !  O  such 
manners  are  pure,  pure,  pure.  They  are,  by  the 
shade  of  Claude  Duval !] 

Rivers.  Mr.  Deakin,  Mr.  Deakin  [this  is  passa- 
tively  too  much].  What  will  you  sip  ?  Give  it  the 
//anar  of  a  neam. 

35 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Brodie.    By   these    most   /^anarable   hands   now, 


III 

Sc.3 


Captain,  you  shall  not.  On  such  an  occasion  I 
could  play  host  with  Lucifer  himself.  Here,  Clarke, 
Mother  Midnight  !  Down  with  you,  Captain  !  [forcing 
him  boisterously  into  a  chair.)  I  don't  know  if  you 
can  lie, but,  sink  me  !  you  shall  sit.  [Drinking,  etc., 
in  dumb-show.) 

Moore  (aside  to  Smith).  We've  nobbled  him, 
Geordie  ! 

Smith  (aside  to  Moore).  As  neat  as  ninepence  ! 
He's  taking  it  down  like  mother's  milk.  But  there'll 
be  wigs  on  the  green  to-morrow,  Badger  !  It'll  be 
tuppence  and  toddle  with  George  Smith. 

MOORE.  O  muck!  Who's  afraid  of  him?  (To 
Ainslie.)     Hang  on,  Slinkie. 

Hunt  '(w/«  is  feigning  drunkenness,  and  has  over- 
heard j  aside).  By  Jingo  ! 

[Rivers.   Will  you  sneeze,  Mr.  Deakin,  sir  ? 

Brodie.  Thanks  ;  I  have  all  the  vices,  Captain. 
You  must  send  me  some  of  your  rappee.  It  is  passa- 
tively  perfect] 

Rivers.  Mr.  Deakin,  I  do  myself  the  //anar  of  a 
sip  to  you. 

Brodie.  Topsy-turvy  with  the  can  ! 

Moore  (aside  to  Smith).  That  made  him 
wink. 

Brodie.  Your  high  and  mighty  hand,  my  Captain  ! 
Shall  we  dice — dice — dice  ?  (Dumb-show  between 
them.) 

36 


1 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

AlNSLIE  {aside  to  Moore).  I'm  sayin' ?  I 

Moore.  What's  up  now  ?  ,,, 

AlNSLIE.  I'm  no  to  gie  him  the  coggit  dice  ?  c 

Moore.  The  square  ones,  rot  you  !     Ain't  he  got  "  ^ 

to  lose  every  brass  farden  ? 

Ainslie.  What'H  like  be  my  share  ? 

Moore.  You  mucking  well  leave  that  to  me. 

Rivers.  Well,  Mr.  Deakin,  if  you  passatively  will 
have  me  shake  a  //elbow 

Brodie.  Where  are  the  bones,  Ainslie  ?  Where 
are  the  dice,  Lord  George  ?  (Ainslie  gives  the 
dice  and  dice-box  to  Brodie  ;  and  privately  a 
second  pair  of  dice.)  Old  Fortune's  counters;  the 
bonnie  money  -  catching,  money  -  breeding  bones  ! 
Hark  to  their  dry  music  !  Scotland  against  Eng- 
land !  Sit  down,  you  tame  devils,  and  put  your 
coins  on  me  ! 

Smith.  Easy  does  it,  my  lord  of  high  degree  ! 
Keep  cool. 

Brodie.  Cool's  the  word,  Captain — a  cool  twenty 
on  the  first  ? 

Rivers.  Done  and  done.     (They play.) 

Hunt  (aside  to  MOORE,  a  little  drunk.)  Ain't  that 
'ere  Scotch  gentleman,  your  friend,  too  drunk  to  play, 
sir  ? 

MOORE.  You  hold  your  jaw  ;  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  you. 

Ainslie.  He's  waur  nor  he  looks.  He's  knockit 
the  box  afl  the  table. 

37 


Ill 
Sc.  3 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

I  Smith  {picking  up  box).     That's  the  way  we  does 

it.     Ten  to  one  and  no  takers  ! 

Brodie.  Deuces  again  !  More  liquor,  Mother 
Clarke  ! 

Smith.  Hooray  our  side  !  [Pouring  out .)  George 
and  his  pal  for  ever  ! 

Brodie.  Deuces  again,  by  heaven  !     Another? 

Rivers.  Done. 

Brodie.  Ten  more  ;  money's  made  to  go.  On 
with  you  ! 

Rivers.  Sixes. 

Brodie.  Deuce-ace.  Death  and  judgment?  Double 
or  quits  ? 

Rivers.  Drive  on  !     Sixes. 

Smith.  Fire  away,  brave  boys!  {To  Moore.) 
It's  Tally-ho-the-Grinder,  Hump  ! 

BRODIE.  Treys  !  Death  and  the  pit !  How  much 
have  you  got  there  ? 

Rivers.  A  cool  forty-five. 

Brodie.  I  play  you  thrice  the  lot. 

Rivers.  Who's  afraid  ? 

Smith.  Stand  by,  Badger  ! 

Rivers.  Cinq-ace. 

Brodie.  My  turn  now.  {He  juggles  in  and  uses  the 
second  pair  of dice .)  Aces!  Aces  again  !  What's 
this?  {Picking  up  dice.)  Sold!  .  .  .  You  play  false, 
you  hound  ! 

Rivers.  You  lie ! 

38 


Ill 
Sc.  5 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie.  In  your  teeth.  {Overturns  table  and  goes 
for  him.) 

MOORE.  Here,  none  o'  that.  {They  hold  him  back. 
Struggle.)  •JC*  o 

Smith.  Hold  on,  Deacon  ! 

Brodie.  Let  me  go.  Hands  off,  I  say !  I'll  not 
touch  him.  {Stands  weighing  dice  in  his  hand.)  But 
as  for  that  thieving  whinger,  Ainslee,  I'll  cut  his 
throat  between  this  dark  and  to-morrow's.  To  the 
bone.  {Addressing  the  company.)  Rogues,  rogues, 
rogues!     {Singing  without.)     Ha!  what's  that  ? 

Ainslie.  It's  the  psalm-singing  up  by  at  the  Holy 
Weaver's.  And  O  Deacon,  if  ye're  a  Christian 
man 

The  Psalm  without  : — 

'  Lord,  who  shall  stand,  if  Thou,  O  Lord, 
Should'st  mark  iniquity  ? 
But  yet  with  Thee  forgiveness  is, 
That  feared  Thou  may'st  be.' 

Brodie.  I  think  I'll  go.  '  My  son  the  Deacon 
was  aye  regular  at  kirk.'     If  the  old  man  could  see 

his  son,  the  Deacon  !     I  think  I'll Ay,  who  shall 

stand?  There's  the  rub!  And  forgiveness,  too? 
There's  a  long  word  for  you !  I  learnt  it  all  lang  syne, 
and  now  .  .  .  hell  and  ruin  are  on  either  hand  of  me, 
and  the  devil  has  me  by  the  leg.  '  My  son,  the 
Deacon  .  .  .  ! '  Eh,  God  !  but  there's  no  fool  like 
an  old  fool !  {Becoming  conscious  of  the  others.) 
Rogues ! 

39 


DEACON     BRODIE 

I  Smith.  Take  my  arm,  Deacon. 

t-jt  BRODIE.  Down,  dog,  down  !     [Stay  and  be  drunk 

q      ^      with  your   equals.]     Gentlemen  and  ladies,  I  have 

^      already  cursed  you  pretty  heavily.     Let  me  do  myself 

the  pleasure  of  wishing  you — a  very — good  evening. 

(As  he  goes  out,  Hunt,  who  has   beat  staggering 

about  in  the  crowd,  falls  on  a  settle,  as  about  to  sleep.) 


Act-Drop 


40 


ACT   II 

TABLEAU    IV 
Evil  and  Good 

The  Stage  represents  the  Deacon's  workshop  ;  benches,  shavings,  tools, 

boards,  and  so  forth.     Doors,  C.  on  the  street,  and  L.  into  the  house. 

Without,  church  bells  ;  not  a  chime,  but  a  slow,  broken  tocsin. 

SCENE   I  II 

BRODIE  {solus).  My  head  !  my  head  !  It's  the  IV 
sickness  of  the  grave.  And  those  bells  go  on  ,  .  .  oC.  I 
go  on  !  .  .  .  inexorable  as  death  and  judgment. 
[There  they  go  ;  the  trumpets  of  respectability, 
sounding  encouragement  to  the  world  to  do  and 
spare  not,  and  not  to  be  found  out.  Found  out ! 
And  to  those  who  are  they  toll  as  when  a  man  goes 
to  the  gallows.]  Turn  where  I  will  are  pitfalls  hell- 
deep.  Mary  and  her  dowry  ;  Jean  and  her  child — 
my  child  ;  the  dirty  scoundrel  Moore  ;  my  uncle  and 
his  trust ;  perhaps  the  man  from  Bow  Street.  Debt, 
vice,  cruelty,  dishonour,  crime  ;  the  whole  canting, 

4i 


DEACON     RRODIE     OR 

lying,  double-dealing,  beastly  business  !  '  My  son 
1V  the  Deacon — Deacon  of  the  Wrights  !  '  My  thoughts 
cp  T  sicken  at  it.  [Oh,  the  Deacon,  the  Deacon  !  Where's 
a  hat  for  the  Deacon  ?  where's  a  hat  for  the  Deacon's 
headache  ?  [searching).  This  place  is  a  piggery.  To 
be  respectable  and  not  to  find  one's  hat.] 

SCENE   II 
To  him,  Jean,  a  baby  in  her  shawl.     C. 

cc  2  Jean  (who  has  entered  silently  during  the  Deacon's 
last  words).     It's  me,  Wullie. 

Brodie  (turning  upon  her).  What !  You  here 
again  ?   [you  again  !] 

Jean.  Deacon,  I'm  unco  vexed. 

Brodie.  Do  you  know  what  you  do  ?  Do  you  know 
what  you  risk  ?  [Is  there  nothing — nothing  ! — will 
make  you  spare  me  this  idiotic,  wanton  prosecution  ?] 

Jean.  I  was  wrong  to  come  yestreen  ;  I  ken  that 
fine.  But  the  day  it's  different  ;  I  but  to  come  the 
day,  Deacon,  though  I  ken  fine  it's  the  Sabbath,  and 
I  think  shame  to  be  seen  upon  the  streets. 

Brodie.  See  here,  Jean.  You  must  go  now.  I'll 
come  to  you  to-night  ;  I  swear  that.  But  now  I'm 
for  the  road. 

Jean.  No  till  you've  heard  me,  William  Brodie. 
Do  ye  think  I  came  to  pleasure  mysel',  where  I'm  no 
wanted  ?     I've  a  pride  o'  my  ains. 

BRODIE.  Jean,  I  am  going  now.     If  you  please  to 

42 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

stay  on  alone,  in  this  house  of  mine,  where  I  wish  I 
could  say  you  are  welcome,  stay  [going).  jy 

Jean.  It's  the  man  frae  Bow  Street.  c 

Brodie.   Bow  Street  ? 

Jean.  I  thocht  ye  would  hear  me.  Ye  think  little 
o'  me  ;  but  it's  mebbe  a  braw  thing  for  you  that  I  think 
sae  muckle  o'  William  Brodie  ...   ill  as  it  sets  me. 

Brodie.  [You  don't  know  what  is  on  my  mind, 
Jeannie,  else  you  would  forgive  me.]     Bow  Street  ? 

Jean.  It's  the  man  Hunt  :  him  that  was  here 
yestreen  for  the  Fiscal. 

Brodie.  Hunt  ? 

Jean.  He  kens  a  hantle.  He  .  .  .  Ye  maunna 
be  angered  wi'me,  Wullie  !     I  said  what  I  shouldna. 

Brodie.  Said  ?    Said  what  ? 

Jean.  Just  that  ye  were  a  guid  frien'  to  me.  He 
made  believe  he  was  awfu'  sorry  for  me,  because  ye 
gied  me  nae  siller  ;  and  I  said, '  Wha  tellt  him  that  ? ' 
and  that  he  lee'd. 

Brodie.  God  knows  he  did  !  What  next  ? 

Jean.  He  was  that  soft-spoken,  butter  wouldna 
melt  in  his  mouth  ;  and  he  keept  aye  harp,  harpin' ; 
but  after  that  let  out,  he  got  neither  black  nor  white 
frae  me.  Just  that  ae  word  and  nae  mair ;  and  at 
the  hinder  end  he  just  speired  straucht  out,  whaur 
it  was  ye  got  your  siller  frae. 

Brodie.  Where  I  got  my  siller  ? 

Jean.  Ay,  that  was  it.     '  You  ken,'  says  he. 
Brodie.  Did  he  ?  and  what  said  you  ? 

43 


Sc.  2 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Jean.  I  couldna  think  on  naething,  but  just  that 
jy         he  was  a  gey  and  clever  gentleman. 

Brodie.  You  should  have  said  I  was  in  trade,  and 
had  a  good  business.  That's  what  you  should  have 
said.  That's  what  you  would  have  said  had  you  been 
worth  your  salt.  But  it's  blunder,  blunder,  outside 
and  in  [upstairs,  downstairs,  and  in  my  lady's  cham- 
ber].    You  women!     Did  he  see  Smith? 

Jean.  Ay,  and  kennt  him. 

Brodie.  Damnation ! No,  I'm  not  angry  with 

you.  But  you  see  what  I've  to  endure  for  you. 
Don't  cry.  [Here's  the  devil  at  the  door,  and  we 
must  bar  him  out  as  best  we  can. J 

Jean.  God's  truth,  ye  are  nae  vexed  wi'  me  ? 

Brodie.  God's  truth,  I  am  grateful  to  you.  How 
is  the  child?  Well?  That's  right.  {Peeping.) 
Poor  wee  laddie  !  He's  like  you,  Jean. 

Jean.  I  aye  thocht  he  was  liker  you. 

Brodie.  Is  he  ?  Perhaps  he  is.  Ah,  Jeannie,  you 
must  see  and  make  him  a  better  man  than  his  father. 

Jean.  Eh  man,  Deacon,  the  proud  wumman  I'll 
be  gin  he's  only  half  sae  guid. 

Brodie.  Well,  well,  if  I  win  through  this,  we'll  see 
what  we  can  do  for  him  between  us.  {Leading  her 
out,  C.)     And  now,  go — go — go. 

Lawson  {without,  L.).  I  ken  the  way,  I  ken  the 
way. 

Jean  {starting  to  door).  It's  the  Fiscal ;  I'mawa. 
(Brodie,  L.). 

44 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 


SCENE  III 


II 

IV 


To  these,  Lawson,  L.  Sc.  3 

Lawson.  A  braw  day  this,  William.  (Seeing Jean.) 
Eh  Mistress  Watt  ?  And  what'll  have  brocht  you 
here  ? 

Brodie  (seated  on  bench).  Something,  uncle,  she 
lost  last  night,  and  she  thinks  that  something  she  lost 
is  here.      Voila. 

Lawson.  Why  are  ye  no  at  the  kirk,  woman  ?  Do 
ye  gang  to  the  kirk  ? 

Jean.  I'm  mebbe  no  what  ye  would  just  ca'  reg'lar. 
Ye  see,  Fiscal,  it's  the  wean. 

LAWSON.  A  bairn's  an  excuse  ;  I  ken  that  fine, 
Mistress  Watt.  But  bairn  or  nane,  my  woman,  ye 
should  be  at  the  kirk.  Awa  wi'  ye  !  Hear  to  the 
bells  ;  they're  ringing  in.  (Jean  curtsies  to  both,  and 
goes  out  C.  The  bells,  which  have  been  ringing  quicker, 
cease. ) 

SCENE  IV 

Lawson    (to  Brodie,   returning   C.  from  door).      Cq    < 
Mulier formosa  supernc,  William  :   a  braw  lass,  and 
a  decent  woman  forbye. 

Brodie.  I'm  no  judge,  Procurator,  but  I'll  take 
your  word  for  it.     Is  she  not  a  tenant  of  yours  ? 

Lawson.  Ay,  ay  ;  a  bit  house  on  my  land  in 
Liberton's  Wynd.     Her  man's  awa,  puir   body  ;  or 

45 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

they  tell  me  sae  ;  and  I'm  concerned  for  her  [she's 
jV         unco   bonnie  to  be  left  her  lane].     But   it  sets  me 


Sc.  4 


brawl y  to  be  finding  faut  wi'  the  puir  lass,  and  me  an 
elder,  and  should  be  at  the  plate.  [There'll  be  twa 
words  about  this  in  the  Kirk  Session.]  However,  it's 
nane  of  my  business  that  brings  me,  or  I  should  tak' 
the  mair  shame  to  mysel'.  Na,  sir,  it's  for  you  ;  it's 
your  business  keeps  me  frae  the  kirk. 

Brodie.  My  business,  Procurator  ?  I  rejoice  to 
see  it  in  such  excellent  hands. 

Lawson.  Ye  see,  it's  this  way.  I  had  a  crack  wi' 
the  laddie,  Leslie,  inter pocula  (he  took  a  stirrup-cup 
wi'  me),  and  he  tells  me  he  has  askit  Mary,  and  she 
was  to  speak  to  ye  herseP.  O,  ye  needna  look  sae 
gash.  Did  she  speak  ?  and  what'll  you  have  said  to 
her? 

BRODIE.  She  has  not  spoken  ;  I  have  said  nothing  ; 
and  I  believe  I  asked  you  to  avoid  the  subject. 

Lawson.  Ay,  I  made  a  note  o'  that  observation, 
William  [and  assoilzied  mysel'].  Mary's  a  guid  lass, 
and  I'm  her  uncle,  and  I'm  here  to  be  answered.  Is 
it  to  be  ay  or  no  ? 

Brodie.  It's  to  be  no.  This  marriage  must  be 
quashed  ;  and  hark  ye,  Procurator,  you  must  help  me. 

Lawson.  Me  ?  ye're  daft !     And  what  for  why  ? 

Brodie.  Because  I've  spent  the  trust-money,  and 
I  can't  refund  it. 

Lawson.  Ye  reprobate  deevil ! 

Brodie.  Have  a  care,  Procurator.    No  wry  words ! 

46 


Sc.  4 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Lawson.  Do  you  say  it  to  my  face,  sir  ?  Dod,  sir,  II 

I'm  the  Crown  Prosecutor.  jy 

Brodie.  Right.  The  Prosecutor  for  the  Crown. 
And  where  did  you  get  your  brandy  ? 

Lawson.  Eh  ? 

Brodie.  Your  brandy  !  Your  brandy,  man  !  Where 
do  you  get  your  brandy  ?  And  you  a  Crown  official 
and  an  elder  ! 

Lawson.  Whaur  the  deevil  did  ye  hear  that  ? 

Brodie.  Rogues  all !  Rogues  all,  Procurator  ! 

Lawson.  Ay,  ay.  Lord  save  us  !  Guidsake,  to 
think  o'  that  noo  !  .  .  .  Can  ye  give  me  some  o'  that 
Cognac  ?  I'm  .  .  .  I'm  sort  o'  shaken,  William, 
I'm  sort  o'  shaken.  Thank  you,  William  !  {Looking 
piteously  at  glass.)  Nunc  est  bibcndum.  (Drinks.) 
Troth,  I'm  set  ajee  a  bit.     Wha  the  deevil  tauld  ye  ? 

Brodie.  Ask  no  questions,  brother.  We  are  a 
pair. 

Lawson.  Pair,  indeed !  Pair,  William  Brodie  ! 
Upon  my  saul,  sir,  ye're  a  brazen-faced  man  that 
durst  say  it  to  my  face  !  Tak'  you  care,  my  bonnie 
young  man,  that  your  craig  doesna  feel  the  wecht  o' 
your  hurdies.  Keep  the  plainstanes  side  o'  the 
gallows.      Via.  trita,  via  tuta,  William  Brodie  ! 

Brodie.  And  the  brandy,  Procurator  ?  and  the 
brandy  ? 

Lawson.  Ay  .  .  .  weel  .  .  .  be't  sae !  Let  the 
brandy  bide,  man,  let  the  brandy  bide!  But  for  you 
and   the   trust-money    .  .   .    dammed  !     It's  felony. 

47 


IV 

Sc.  4 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Ttttor  in  rem  suam,  ye  ken,  tutor  in  rem  sitam.  But 
O  man,  Deacon,  whaur  is  the  siller? 

Brodie.  It's  gone — O  how  the  devil  should  I 
know?     But  it'll  never  come  back. 

LAWSON.  Dear,  dear  !  A'  gone  to  the  winds  o' 
heaven  !  Sae  ye're  an  extravagant  dog,  too.  Pro- 
digits  et furiosus  !  And  that  puir  lass — eh,  Deacon, 
man,  that  puir  lass  !     I  mind  her  such  a  bonny  bairn. 

Brodie  {stopping  his  ears).  Brandy,  brandy, 
brandy,  brandy,  brandy ! 

Lawson.  William  Brodie,  mony's  the  long  day 
that  I've  believed  in  you  ;  prood,  prood  was  I  to  be 
the  Deacon's  uncle  ;  and  a  sore  hearing  have  I  had 
of  it  the  day.  That's  past ;  that's  past  like  Flodden 
Field  ;  it's  an  auld  sang  noo,  and  I'm  an  aulder  man 
than  when  I  crossed  your  door.  But  mark  ye  this — 
mark  ye  this,  William  Brodie,  I  may  be  no  sae  guid's  I 
should  be  ;  but  there's  no  a  saul  between  the  east  sea 
and  the  wast  can  lift  his  een  to  God  that  made  him, 
and  say  I  wranged  him  as  ye  wrang  that  lassie.  I  bless 
God,  William  Brodie— ay,  though  he  was  like  my 
brother — I  bless  God  that  he  that  got  ye  has  the  hand 
of  death  upon  his  hearing,  and  can  win  into  his  grave 
a  happier  man  than  me.  And  ye  speak  to  me,  sir  ? 
Think  shame — think  shame  upon  your  heart  ! 

Brodie.  Rogues  all ! 

Lawson.  You're  the  son  of  my  sister,  William 
Brodie.  Mair  than  that  I  stop  not  to  inquire.  If  the 
siller  is  spent,  and  the  honour  tint— Lord  help  us,  and 

48 


Sc.  4 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

the  honour  tint ! — sae  be  it,  I  maun  bow  the  head.  1 1 
Ruin  shallna  come  by  me.  Na,  and  I'll  say  mair,  IV 
William  ;  we  have  a'  our  weary  sins  upon  our  backs, 
and  maybe  I  have  mair  than  mony.  But,  man,  if 
ye  could  bring  half  the  jointure  .  .  .  \potius  quam 
pereas]  .  .  .  for  your  mither's  son  ?  Na  ?  You 
couldna  bring  the  half?  Weel,  weel,  it's  a  sair  heart 
1  have  this  day,  a  sair  heart  and  a  weary.  If  I  were 
a  better  man  mysel'  .  .  .  but  there,  there,  it's  a  sair 
heart  that  I  have  gotten.  And  the  Lord  kens  I'll 
help  ye  if  I  can.     [Points  quam  ftercas.] 

SCENE   V 

Brodie.  Sore  hearing,  does  he  say  ?  My  hand's  Cp  <- 
wet.  But  it's  victory.  Shall  it  be  go  ?  or  stay  ?  [I 
should  show  them  all  I  can,  or  they  may  pry  closer 
than  they  ought.]  Shall  I  have  it  out  and  be  done 
with  it  ?  To  see  Mary  at  once  [to  carry  bastion  after 
bastion  at  the  charge] — there  were  the  true  safety 
after  all  !  Hurry — hurry's  the  road  to  silence  now. 
Let  them  once  get  tattling  in  their  parlours,  and  it's 
death  to  me.  For  I'm  in  a  cruel  corner  now.  I'm 
down,  and  I  shall  get  my  kicking  soon  and  soon 
enough.  I  began  it  in  the  lust  of  life,  in  a  hey-day  of 
mystery  and  adventure.  I  felt  it  great  to  be  a  bolder, 
craftier  rogue  than  the  drowsy  citizen  that  called 
himself  my  fellow-man.  [It  was  meat  and  drink  to 
know  him  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,  hoarding  that  I 

49 


Sc.  5 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

and  mine  might  squander,  pinching  that  we  might 
IY  wax  fat.]  It  was  in  the  laughter  of  my  heart  that  I 
tip-toed  into  his  greasy  privacy.  I  forced  the  strong- 
box at  his  ear  while  he  sprawled  beside  his  wife.  He 
was  my  butt,  my  ape,  my  jumping-jack.  And  now 
.  .  .  O  fool,  fool !  [Duped  by  such  knaves  as  are 
a  shame  to  knavery,  crime's  rabble,  hell's  tatterde- 
malions !]  Shorn  to  the  quick  !  Rooked  to  my  vitals  ! 
And  I  must  thieve  for  my  daily  bread  like  any  crawl- 
ing blackguard  in  the  gutter.  And  my  sister  .  .  .  my 
kind,  innocent  sister  !  She  will  come  smiling  to  me 
with  her  poor  little  love-story,  and  I  must  break  her 
heart.  Broken  hearts,  broken  lives !  .  .  .  I  should 
have  died  before. 

SCENE   VI 
Brodie,    Mary 

Sc.  6         Mary  {tapping  without).  Can  I  come  in,  Will  ? 

Brodie.  O  yes,  come  in,  come  in  !  (Mary  enters.) 
I  wanted  to  be  quiet,  but  it  doesn't  matter,  I  see. 
You  women  are  all  the  same. 

Mary.  O  no,  Will,  they're  not  all  so  happy,  and 
they're  not  all  Brodies.  But  I'll  be  a  woman  in  one 
thing.  For  I've  come  to  claim  your  promise,  dear  ; 
and  I'm  going  to  be  petted  and  comforted  and  made 
much  of,  altho'  I  don't  need  it,  and  .  ,  .  Why,  Will, 
what's  wrong  with  you  ?  You  look  ...  I  don't  know 
what  you  look  like. 

5o 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie.    O  nothing !     A    splitting  head    and  an 
aching  heart.     Well  !  you've  come  to  speak  to  me.         Iv 
Speak  up.     What  is  it  ?     Come,  girl  !     What  is  it  ?      c      r 
Can't  you  speak  ? 

Mary.  Why,  Will,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Brodie.  I  thought  you  had  come  to  tell  me  some- 
thing. Here  I  am.  For  God's  sake  out  with  it,  and 
don't  stand  beating  about  the  bush. 

Mary.   O  be  kind,  be  kind  to  me. 

Brodie.  Kind  ?  I  am  kind.  I'm  only  ill  and 
worried,  can't  you  see  ?  Whimpering  ?  I  knew  it ! 
Sit  down,  you  goose  !  Where  do  you  women  get 
your  tears  ? 

Mary.  Why  are  you  so  cross  with  me  ?  Oh,  Will, 
you  have  forgot  your  sister  !  Remember,  dear,  that 
I  have  nobody  but  you.  It's  your  own  fault,  Will,  if 
you've  taught  me  to  come  to  you  for  kindness,  for  I 
always  found  it.  And  I  mean  you  shall  be  kind  to 
me  again.  I  know  you  will,  for  this  is  my  great  need, 
and  the  day  I've  missed  my  mother  sorest.  Just  a 
nice  look,  dear,  and  a  soft  tone  in  your  voice,  to  give 
me  courage,  for  I  can  tell  you  nothing  till  I  know  that 
you're  my  own  brother  once  again. 

Brodie.  If  you'd  take  a  hint,  you'd  put  it  off  till 
to-morrow.  But  I  suppose  you  won't.  On,  then,  I'm 
listening.     I'm  listening  ! 

Mary.   Mr.  Leslie  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. 

Brodie.  He  has,  has  he  ? 

Mary.  And  I  have  consented. 

51 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

II  Brodie.  And     .     .     .     ? 

jV  Mary.  You  can  say  that  to  me  ?     And  that  is  all 

cr  f:      you  have  to  say  ? 

Brodie.  O  no,  not  all. 

Mary.  Speak  out,  sir.     I  am  not  afraid. 

Brodie.  I  suppose  you  want  my  consent  ? 

Mary.   Can  you  ask  ? 

Brodie.  I  didn't  know.  You  seem  to  have  got  on 
pretty  well  without  it  so  far. 

Mary.  O  shame  on  you  !  shame  on  you  ! 

Brodie.  Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  do  without 
it  altogether.  I  hope  so.  For  you'll  never  have  it. 
.  .  .  Mary!  .  .  .  I  hate  to  see  you  look  like  that.  If 
I  could  say  anything  else,  believe  me,  I  would  say  it. 
But  I  have  said  all  ;  every  word  is  spoken  ;  there's 
the  end. 

Mary.  It  shall  not  be  the  end.  You  owe  me 
explanation  ;  and  I'll  have  it. 

BRODIE.  Isn't  my  '  No  '  enough,  Mary  ? 

Mary.  It  might  be  enough  for  me  ;  but  it  is  not, 
and  it  cannot  be,  enough  for  him.  He  has  asked  me 
to  be  his  wife  ;  he  tells  me  his  happiness  is  in  my 
hands — poor  hands,  but  they  shall  not  fail  him,  if  my 
poor  heart  should  break  !  If  he  has  chosen  and  set 
his  hopes  upon  me,  of  all  women  in  the  world,  I  shall 
find  courage  somewhere  to  be  worthy  of  the  choice. 
And  I  dare  you  to  leave  this  room  until  you  tell  me 
all  your  thoughts — until  you  prove  that  this  is  good 
and  right. 

52 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie.  Good  and  right  ?  They  are  strange  words,         II 
Mary.     I  mind  the  time  when  it  was  good  and  right         IV 
to  be  your  father's  daughter  and  your  brother's  sister.      Cc  g 
.  .   .  Now !   .  .  . 

Mary.  Have  I  changed  ?  Not  even  in  thought. 
My  father,  Walter  says,  shall  live  and  die  with  us. 
He  shall  only  have  gained  another  son.  And  you — 
you  know  what  he  thinks  of  you  ;  you  know  what  I 
would  do  for  you. 

Brodie.  Give  him  up. 

Mary.  I  have  told  you  :  not  without  a  reason. 

Brodie.  You  must. 

Mary.  I  will  not. 

Brodie.  What  if  I  told  you  that  you  could  only 
compass  your  happiness  and  his  at  the  price  of  my 
ruin  ? 

Mary.  Your  ruin  ? 

Brodie.  Even  so. 

Mary.     Ruin  ! 

Brodie.  It  has  an  ugly  sound,  has  it  not  ? 

Mary.  O  Willie,  what  have  you  done?  What 
have  you  done  ?     What  have  you  done  ? 

Brodie.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Mary.  But  you  may 
trust  me.  You  must  give  up  this  Leslie  .  .  .  and  at 
once.     It  is  to  save  me. 

Mary.  I  would  die  for  you,  dear,  you  know  that. 
But  I  cannot  be  false  to  him.  Even  for  you,  I  cannot 
be  false  to  him. 

Brodie.   We  shall  see.     Let  me  take  you  to  your 

S3 


IV 

Sc.  6 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

room.  Come.  And,  remember,  it  is  for  your  brother's 
sake.     It  is  to  save  me. 

MARY.  I  am  true  Brodie.  Give  me  time,  and  you 
shall  not  find  me  wanting.  But  it  is  all  so  sudden 
...  so  strange  and  dreadful  !  You  will  give  me 
time,  will  you  not  ?  I  am  only  a  woman,  and  .  .  .  O 
my  poor  Walter  !  It  will  break  his  heart !  It  will 
break  his  heart!     {A  knock.) 

Brodie.  You  hear  ! 
*  Mary.  Yes,  yes.     Forgive  me.     I   am  going.     I 

will  go.  It  is  to  save  you,  is  it  not  ?  To  save  you. 
Walter  .  .  .  Mr.  Leslie  .  .  .  O  Deacon,  Deacon, 
God  forgive  you  !     {She goes  out.) 

Brodie.  Amen.     But  will  He  ? 

SCENE   VII 

Brodie,  Hunt 

!$Ct  7  Hunt  {hat  in  hand).  Mr.  Deacon  Brodie,  I  be- 
lieve ? 

Brodie.  I  am  he,  Mr. . 

Hunt.  Hunt,  sir  ;  an  officer  from  Sir  John  Field- 
ing of  Bow  Street. 

Brodie.  There  can  be  no  better  passport  than  the 
name.     In  what  can  I  serve  you  ? 

Hunt.  You'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Deacon. 

Brodie.  Your  duty  excuses  you,  Mr.  Hunt. 

Hunt.  Your  obedient.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Deacon 
[we  in  the  office  see  a  good  deal  of  the  lives  of  private 

54 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

parties  ;  and  I  needn't  tell  a  gentleman  of  your  expe- 
rience   it's    part  of   our   duty   to    hold  our  tongues.         TV 
Now],  it's  come  to  my  knowledge  that  you  are  a  trifle      c 
jokieous.     Of  course  I  know  there  ain't  any  harm  in  "  ' 

that.     I've  been   young    myself,    Mr.    Deacon,  and 
speaking 

Brodie.  O,  but  pardon  me,  Mr.  Hunt,  I  am  not 
going  to  discuss  my  private  character  with  you. 

Hunt.  To  be  sure  you  ain't.     [And  do  I  blame 
you  ?     Not  me.]     But,  speaking  as  one  man  of  the 
world  to  another,  you  naturally  see  a  great  deal  of 
bad  company. 

Brodie.  Not  half  so  much  as  you  do.  But  I  see 
what  you're  driving  at  ;  and  if  I  can  illuminate  the 
course  of  justice,  you  may  command  me.  (He  sits, 
and  motions  Hunt  to  do  likewise.) 

Hunt.  I  was  dead  sure  of  it ;  and  'and  upon  'art, 
Mr.  Deacon,  I  thank  you.  Now  (consulting pocket- 
book),  did  you  ever  meet  a  certain  George  Smith  ? 

Brodie.  The  fellow  they  call  Jingling  Geordie  ? 
(Hunt  nods)     Yes. 

Hunt.  Bad  character. 

Brodie.  Let  us  say  .  .  .  disreputable. 

Hunt.  Any  means  of  livelihood  ? 

Brodie.  I  really  cannot  pretend  to  guess.  I  have 
met  the  creature  at  cock-fights  [which,  as  you  know, 
are  my  weakness].     Perhaps  he  bets. 

Hunt.  [Mr.  Deacon,  from  what  I  know  of  the 
gentleman,  I  should  say  that  if  he  don't — if  he  ain't 

55 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

open  to  any  mortal  thing — he  ain't  the  man  I  mean.] 
jy         He  used    to    be    about  with    a    man    called  Badger 
gc    -      Moore. 

'  '  Brodie.  The  boxer  ? 

HUNT.  That's  him.     Know  anything  of  him  ? 

Brodie.  Not  much.  I  lost  five  pieces  on  him  in  a 
fight  ;  and  I  fear  he  sold  his  backers. 

Hunt.  Speaking  as  one  admirer  of  the  noble  art 
to  another,  Mr.  Deacon,  the  losers  always  do.  I  sup- 
pose the  Badger  cockfights  like  the  rest  of  us  ? 

Brodie.  I  have  met  him  in  the  pit. 

Hunt.  Well,  it's  a  pretty  sport.  I'm  as  partial 
to  a  main  as  anybody. 

Brodie.  It's  not  an  elegant  taste,  Mr.  Hunt. 

Hunt.  It  costs  as  much  as  though  it  was.  And 
that  reminds  me,  speaking  as  one  sportsman  to 
another,  Mr.  Deacon,  I  was  sorry  to  hear  that  you've 
been  dropping  a  hatful  of  money  lately. 

Brodie.  You  are  very  good. 

Hunt.  Four  hundred  in  three  months,  they  tell  me. 

Brodie.  Ah  ! 

Hunt.  So  they  say,  sir. 

Brodie.  They  have  a  perfect  right  to  say  so,  Mr. 
Hunt. 

Hunt.  And  you  to  do  the  other  thing  ?  Well,  I'm 
a  good  hand  at  keeping  close  myself. 

Brodie.  I  am  not  consulting  you,  Mr.  Hunt  ;  'tis 
you  who  are  consulting  me.  And  if  there  is  nothing 
else  {rising)  in  which  I  can  pretend  to  serve  you  .  .  .? 

56 


Sc.  7 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

HUNT  {rising).  That's  about  all,  sir,  unless  you 
can  put  me  on  to  anything  good  in  the  way  of  heckle         jy 
and  spur  ?     I'd  try  to  look  in. 

BRODIE.  O,  come,  Mr.  Hunt,  if  you  have  nothing 
to  do,  frankly  and  flatly  I  have.  This  is  not  the  day 
for  such  a  conversation  ;  and  so  good-bye  to  you. 
(A  knocking,  C.) 

Hunt.  Servant,  Mr.  Deacon.  (Smith  ^mTMoore, 
without  waiting  to  be  answered,  open  and  enter,  C. 
They  are  well  into  the  room  before  they  observe 
Hunt.)     [Talk  of  the  Devil,  sir  !J 

Brodie.  What  brings  you  here  ?  (Smith  and 
MOORE,  confounded  by  the  officer's  presence,  slouch 
together  to  right  of  door.  HUNT,  stopping  as  he  goes 
out,  contemplates  the  pair,  sarcastically.  This  is  sup- 
ported by  Moore  with  sullen  bravado  ;  by  Smith, 
with  cringing  airiness.) 

Hunt  (digging  Smith  in  the  ribs).  Why,  you  are 
the  very  parties  I  was  looking  for  !    (He  goes  out,  C.) 


SCENE   VIII 

Brodie,  Moore,  Smith 

Moore.  Wot  was  that  cove  here  about  ?  CJc.  g 

Brodie  (with  folded  arms,  half- sitting  on  bench). 

He  was  here  about  you. 
Smith  (still  quite  discountenanced).     About  us? 

Scissors  !     And  what  did  you  tell  him  ? 

57 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

BRODIE  (same  attitude).  I  spoke  of  you  as  I  have 
jy  found  you.  [I  told  him  you  were  a  disreputable 
o  q  hound,  and  that  Moore  had  crossed  a  fight.]  I  told 
him  you  were  a  drunken  ass,  and  Moore  an  incom- 
petent and  dishonest  boxer. 

Moore.  Look  here,  Deacon !  Wot's  up  ?  Wot 
I  sea  is,  if  a  cove's  got  any  thundering  grudge  agin 
a  cove,  why  can't  he  spit  it  out,  I  ses. 

Brodie.  Here  are  my  answers  (producing  purse 
and  dice).  These  are  both  too  light.  This  purse  is 
empty,  these  dice  are  not  loaded.  Is  it  indiscretion 
to  inquire  how  you  share  ?  Equal  with  the  Captain, 
I  presume  ? 

Smith.  It's  as  easy  as  my  eye,  Deakin.  Slink 
Ainslie  got  letting  the  merry  glass  go  round,  and 
didn't  know  the  right  bones  from  the  wrong.  That's 
/zall. 

Brodie.  [What  clumsy  liars  you  are  ! 

Smith.  In  boyhood's  hour,  Deakin,  he  were  called 
Old  Truthful.     Little  did  he  think ] 

Brodie.  What  is  your  errand  ? 

Moore.  Business. 

Smith.  After  the  melancholy  games  of  last  night, 
Deakin,  which  no  one  deplores  so  much  as  George 
Smith,  we  thought  we'd  trot  round — didn't  us,  Hump  ? 
and  see  how  you  and  your  bankers  was  a-getting  on. 

Brodie.  Will  you  tell  me  your  errand  ? 

Moore.  You're  dry,  ain't  you  ? 

Brodie.  Am  I  ? 

58 


IV 

Sc.8 


THE    DOUBLE     LIFE 

Moore.  We  ain't  none  of  us  got  a  stiver,  that's 
vvot's  the  matter  with  us. 

Brodie.  Is  it  ? 

Moore.  Ay,  strike  me,  it  is  !  And  wot  we've  got 
to  do  is  to  put  up  the  Excise. 

Smith.  It's  the  last  plant  in  the  shrubbery,  Deakin, 
and  it's  breaking  George  the  gardener's  heart,  it  is. 
We  really  must  ! 

Brodie.  Must  we  ? 

Moore.  Must's  the  thundering  word.  I  mean 
business,  I  do. 

Brodie.  That's  lucky.     I  don't. 

Moore.   O,  you  don't,  don't  you  ? 

Brodie.  I  do  not. 

Moore.  Then  p'raps  you'll  tell  us  wot  you  thun- 
dering will  do  ? 

Brodie.  What  do  I  mean  ?  I  mean  that  you  and 
that  merry-andrew  shall  walk  out  of  this  room  and 
this  house.  Do  you  suppose,  you  blockheads,  that  I 
am  blind  ?  I'm  the  Deacon,  am  I  not  ?  I've  been 
your  king  and  your  commander.  I've  led  you,  and 
fed  you,  and  thought  for  you  with  this  head.  And 
you  think  to  steal  a  march  upon  a  man  like  me  ?  I 
see  you  through  and  through  [I  know  you  like  the 
clock]  ;  I  read  your  thoughts  like  print.  Brodie,  you 
thought,  has  money,  and  won't  do  the  job.  There- 
fore, you  thought,  we  must  rook  him  to  the  heart. 
And  therefore,  you  put  up  your  idiot  cockney.  And 
now  you  come  round,  and  dictate,  and  think  sure  of 

59 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

your  Excise  ?  Sure  ?  Are  you  sure  I'll  let  you  pack 
j.-  with  a  whole  skin  ?  By  my  soul,  but  I've  a  mind  to 
C«  o  pistol  you  like  dogs.  Out  of  this  !  Out,  I  say,  and 
soil  my  home  no  more. 

MOORE  (sitting).  Now  look  'ere.  Mr.  bloody 
Deacon  Brodie,  you  see  this 'ere  chair  of  yours,  don't 
you  ?  Wot  I  ses  to  you  is,  here  I  am,  I  ses,  and  here 
I  mean  to  stick.  That's  my  motto.  Who  the  devil  are 
you  to  do  the  high  and  mighty  ?  You  make  all  you  can 
out  of  us,  don't  you  ?  and  when  one  of  your  plants  get 
cross,  you  order  us  out  of  the  ken  ?  Muck  !  That's 
wot  I  think  of  you.  Muck  !  Don't  you  get  coming  the 
nob  over  me,  Mr.  Deacon  Brodie,  or  I'll  smash  you. 

Brodie.  You  will  ? 

MOORE.  Ay  will  I.  If  I  thundering  well  swing  for 
it.  And  as  for  clearing  out  ?  Muck  !  Here  I  am, 
and  here  I  stick.  Clear  out  ?  You  try  it  on.  I'm  a 
man,  I  am. 

Brodie.  This  is  plain  speaking. 

MOORE.  Plain  ?  Wot  about  your  father  as  can't 
walk  ?  Wot  about  your  fine-madam  sister  ?  Wot 
about  the  stone-jug,  and  the  clock,  and  the  rope  in 
the  open  street  ?  Is  that  plain  ?  If  it  ain't,  you  let 
me  know,  and  I'll  spit  it  out  so  as  it'll  raise  the  roof 
off  this 'ere  ken.  Plain  !  I'm  that  cove's  master,  and 
I'll  make  it  plain  enough  for  him. 

Brodie.  What  do  you  want  of  me  ? 

MoORE.  Wot  do  I  want  of  you  ?  Now  you  speak 
sense.     Leslie's  is  wot  I  want  of  you.     The  Excise  is 

60 


Sc.  8 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

wot  I  want  of  you.     Leslie's  to-night  and  the  Excise 
to-morrow.     That's  wot  I   want  of  you,  and  wot   I         1V 
thundering  well  mean  to  get. 

Brodie.  Damn  you  ! 

MOORE.  Amen.     But  you've  got  your  orders. 

Brodie.  (with pistol).  Orders?  hey?  orders? 

Smith  (between  them).  Deacon,  Deacon ! — Badger, 
are  you  mad  ? 

Moore.  Muck!  That's  my  motto.  What  I  ses  is, 
has  he  got  his  orders  or  has  he  not  ?  That's  wot's 
the  matter  with  him. 

Smith.  Deacon,  half  a  tick.  Humphrey,  I'm  only 
a  light  weight,  and  you  fight  at  twelve  stone  ten,  but 
I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to  stand  still  and  see  you 
hitting  a  pal  when  he's  down. 

MOORE.   Muck  !  That's  wot  I  think  of  you. 

Smith.  He's  a  cut  above  us,  ain't  he  ?  He  never 
sold  his  backers,  did  he  ?  We  couldn't  have  done 
without  him,  could  we  ?  You  dry  up  about  his  old 
man,  and  his  sister  ;  and  don't  go  on  hitting  a  pal 
when  he's  knocked  out  of  time  and  cannot  hit  back, 
for,  damme,  I  will  not  stand  it. 

MOORE.  Amen  to  you.  But  I'm  cock  of  this  here 
thundering  walk,  and  that  cove's  got  his  orders. 

Brodie  (putting  pistol  on  bench).  I  give  in.  I 
will  do  your  work  for  you  once  more.  Leslie's  to-night 
and  the  Excise  to-morrow.  If  that  is  enough,  if  you 
have  no  more  .   .  .  orders,  you  may  count  it  as  done. 

MOORE.  Fen  larks.     No  rotten  shirking,  mind. 

61 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Brodie.  I  have  passed  you  my  word.     And  now 
jy         you  have  said  what  you  came  to  say,  you  must  go.   I 
c      o      have  business  here  ;  but  two  hours  hence  I  am  at 
your  .  .   .  orders.     Where  shall  1  await  you  ? 

MOORE.  What  about  that  woman's  place  of  yours  ? 
Brodie.   Your  will  is  my  law. 
MOORE.  That's  good  enough.     Now,  Dook. 
SMITH.  Bye-bye,  my  William.     Don't  fcrget. 

SCENE     IX 

5c.  Q  Brodie.  Trust  me.  No  man  forgets  his  vice, 
you  dogs,  or  forgives  it  either.  It  must  be  done  : 
Leslie's  to-night  and  the  Excise  to-morrow.  It 
shall  be  done.  This  settles  it.  They  used  to  fetch 
and  carry  for  me,  and  now  .  .  .  I've  licked  their 
boots,  have  I  ?  I'm  their  man,  their  tool,  their 
chattel.  It's  the  bottom  rung  of  the  ladder  of 
shame.  I  sound  with  my  foot,  and  there's  nothing 
underneath  but  the  black  emptiness  of  damnation. 
Ah,  Deacon,  Deacon,  and  so  this  is  where  you've 
been  travelling  all  these  years  ;  and  it's  for  this  that 
you  learned  French  !  The  gallows  .  .  .  God  help 
me,  it  begins  to  dog  me  like  my  shadow.  There's  a 
step  to  take !  And  the  jerk  upon  your  spine  !  How's 
a  man  to  die  with  a  night-cap  on  ?  I've  done  with 
this.  Over  yonder,  across  the  great  ocean,  is  a  new 
land,  with  new  characters,  and  perhaps  new  lives. 
The  sun  shines,  and  the  bells  ring,  and  it's  a  place 
where  men  live  gladly  ;  and  the  Deacon  himself  can 
62 


St:.  9 


THE     DOUBLE    LIFE 

walk  without  terror,  and  begin  again  like  a  new-born 
child.  It  must  be  good  to  see  day  again  and  not  to  jy 
fear  ;  it  must  be  good  to  be  one's  self  with  all  men. 
Happy  like  a  child,  wise  like  a  man,  free  like  God's 
angels  . . .  should  I  work  these  hands  off  and  eat  crusts, 
there  were  a  life  to  make  me  young  and  good  again. 
And  it's  only  over  the  sea  !  O  man,  you  have  been 
blind,  and  now  your  eyes  are  opened.  It  was  half 
a  life's  nightmare,  and  now  you  are  awake.  Up, 
Deacon,  up,  it's  hope  that's  at  the  window  !  Mary  ! 
Mary  !   Mary  ! 

SCENE   X 
Brodie,  Mary,  Old  Brodie 

(Brodie  lias  fallen  into  a  chair,  with  his  face  upon  gp  -.q 
the  table.  Enter  Mary,  by  the  side  door,  pitsh- 
ing  her  father's  chair.  She  is  supposed  to  have 
advanced  far  enough  for  stage  purposes  before 
Brodie  is  aware  of  her.  He  starts  up,  and  runs 
to  her.) 

Brodie.  Look  up,  my  lass,  look  up,  and  be  a 
woman  !  I  .  .  .  O  kiss  me,  Mary  !  give  me  a  kiss 
for  my  good  news. 

Mary.  Good  news,  Will  ?     Is  it  changed  ? 

Brodie.  Changed  ?  Why,  the  world's  a  different 
colour  !  It  was  night,  and  now  it's  broad  day,  and  I 
trust  myself  again.  You  must  wait,  dear,  wait,  and  I 
must  work  and  work  ;  and  before  the  week  is  out,  as 
sure  as  God  sees  me,  I'll  have  made  vou  happy.     O 

63 


DEACON     BRODIE 

you  may  think  me  broken,  hounds,  but  the  Deacon's 
jy  not  the  man  to  be  run  clown  ;  trust  him,  he  shall  turn 
c^  7n  a  corner  yet,  and  leave  you  snarling  !  And  you,  Poll, 
you.  I've  done  nothing  for  you  yet  ;  but,  please 
God,  I'll  make  your  life  a  life  of  gold  ;  and  wherever 
I  am,  I'll  have  a  part  in  your  happiness,  and  you'll 
know  it,  by  heaven  !  and  bless  me. 

Mary.  O  Willie,  look  at  him  ;  I  think  he  hears 
you,  and  is  trying  to  be  glad  with  us. 

Old  Brodie.  My  son — Deacon — better  man  than 
I  was. 

Brodie.  O  for  God's  sake,  hear  him  ! 

Mary.  He  is  quite  happy,  Will,  and  so  am  I  .  .  . 
so  am  I. 

Brodie.  Hear  me,  Mary.  This  is  a  big  moment 
in  our  two  lives.  I  swear  to  you  by  the  father  here 
between  us  that  it  shall  not  be  fault  of  mine  if  this 
thing  fails  ;  if  this  ship  founders  you  have  set  your 
hopes  in.  I  swear  it  by  our  father  ;  I  swear  it  by 
God's  judgments. 

Mary.  I  want  no  oaths,  Will. 

Brodie.  No,  but  I  do.  And  prayers,  Mary, 
prayers.  Pray  night  and  day  upon  your  knees.  I 
must  move  mountains. 

Old  Brodie.  A  wise  son  maketh — maketh 

Brodie.  A  glad  father  ?  And  does  your  son,  the 
Deacon,  make  you  glad  ?  O  heaven  of  heavens,  if  I 
were  a  good  man. 

Act-Drop 

64 


ACT  III 

TABLEAU  V 
King's  Evid  enc  e 

The  Stage  represents  a  public  place  in  Edinburgh 

SCENE  I  jjj 

Jean,  Smith,  and  Moore  V 

Sc.  i 

( They  loiter  in  L. ,  and  stand  looking  about  as  for 
somebody  not  there.  Smith  is  hat  in  hand  to 
Jean  ;  Moore  as  usual.) 

MOORE.  Wot  did  I  tell  you?  Is  he  'ere,  or  ain't 
he  ?  Now,  then.  Slink  by  name  and  Slink  by  nature, 
that's  wot's  the  matter  with  him. 

JEAN.  He'll  no  be  lang  ;  he's  regular  enough,  if 
that  was  a'. 

MOORE.  I'd  regular  him  ;   I'd  break  his  back. 

Smith.    Badger,  vou  brute,  you   hang  on  to  the 

65 


Sc 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

lessons  of  your  dancing-master.  None  but  the  gen- 
y  teel  deserves  the  fair  ;  does  they,  Duchess  ? 

Moore.  O  rot  !  Did  I  insult  the  blowen  ?  Wot's 
the  matter  with  me  is  Slink  Ainslie. 

Smith.  All  right,  old  Crossed-in-love.  Give  him 
forty  winks,  and  he'll  turn  up  as  fresh  as  clean  saw- 
dust and  as  respectable  as  a  new  Bible. 

MOORE.  That's  right  enough  ;  but  I  ain't  agoing 
to  stand  here  all  day  for  him.  I'm  for  a  drop  of 
something  short,  I  am.  You  tell  him  I  showed  you 
that  (showing  his  doubled  fist).  That's  wot's  the 
matter  with  him.     (He  lurches  out,  R.) 

SCENE  II 

Smith  and  Jean,  to  -whom  Hunt,  and  afterwards 

Moore 

Sc.  2  Smith  (critically).    No,  Duchess,  he  has  not  good 

manners. 

Jean.  Ay,  he's  an  impident  man. 

Smith.  So  he  is,  Jean  ;  and  for  the  matter  of  that 
he  ain't  the  only  one. 

Jean.  Geordie,  I  want  nae  mair  o'  your  nonsense, 
mind. 

Smith.  There's  our  old  particular  the  Deacon, 
now.  Why  is  he  ashamed  of  a  lovely  woman  ?  That's 
not  my  idea  of  the  Young  Chevalier,  Jean.  If  I  had 
luck,  we  should  be  married,  and  retire  to  our  estates 

66 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

in  the  country,  shouldn't  us  ?  and  go  to  church  and 

be  happy,  like  the  nobility  and  gentry.  v 

Jean.   Geordie  Smith,  div    ye  mean  ye'd  mairry      o 
me  ? 

Smith.  Mean  it  ?  What  else  has  ever  been  the 
'umble  petition  of  your  honest  but  well-meaning 
friend,  Roman,  and  fellow-countryman  ?  I  know  the 
Deacon's  your  man,  and  I  know  he's  a  cut  above 
G.  S.  ;  but  he  won't  last,  Jean,  and  I  shall. 

Jean.  Ay,  I'm  muckle  ta'en  up  wi'  him  ;  wha  could 
help  it  ? 

Smith.  Well,  and  my  sort  don't  grow  on  apple- 
trees  either. 

Jean.  Ye're  a  fine,  cracky,  neebourly  body, 
Geordie,  if  ye  wad  just  let  me  be. 

Smith.   I  know  I  ain't  a  Scotchman  born. 

Jean.  I  dinna  think  sae  muckle  the  waur  o'  ye 
even  for  that  ;  if  ye  would  just  let  me  be. 

[Hunt  [entering  behind,  aside).  Are  they  thick? 
Anyhow,  it's  a  second  chance.] 

Smith.  But  he  won't  last,  Jean  ;  and  when  he 
leaves  you,  you  come  to  me.  Is  that  your  taste 
in  pastry  ?  That's  the  kind  of  harticle  that  I  pre- 
sent. 

HUNT  {surprising  them  as  in  Tableati  L).  Why, 
you're  the  very  parties  I  was  looking  for ! 

Jean.  Mercy  me  ! 

Smith.  Damn  it,  Jerry,  this  is  unkind. 

Hunt.   [Now  this  is  what  I  call  a  picter  of  good 

67 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

fortune.]     Ain't    it    strange  I    should  have  dropped 
Y         across  you  comfortable  and  promiscuous  like  this  ? 
cp   0         Jean   {stolidly).   I  hope  ye're  middling  weel,  Mr. 
Hunt?     {Going.)     Mr.  Smith  ! 

Smith.  Mrs.  Watt,  ma'am  !     {Going.) 

Hunt.  Hold  hard,  George.  Speaking  as  one 
lady's  man  to  another,  turn  about's  fair  play.  You've 
had  your  confab,  and  now  I'm  going  to  have  mine. 
[Not  that  I've  done  with  you  ;  you  stand  by  and 
wait.]  Ladies  first,  George,  ladies  first  ;  that's  the 
size  of  it.  {To  Jean,  aside.)  Now,  Mrs.  Watt,  I  take 
it  you  ain't  a  natural  fool  ? 

Jean.  And  thank  ye  kindly,  Mr.  Hunt. 

SMITH  {interfering).  Jean  .   .  . ! 

HUNT  {keeping  him  off).  Haifa  tick,  George.  {To 
Jean.)  Mrs.  Watt,  I've  a  warrant  in  my  pocket. 
One,  two,  three  :  will  you  peach? 

Jean.  Whatten  kind  of  a  word'll  that  be  ? 

Smith.  Mum  it  is,  Jean  ! 

Hunt.  When  you've  done  dancing,  George ! 
(7<?Jean.)  It  ain't  a  pretty  expression,  my  dear,  I 
own  it.  Will  you  blow  the  gaff  is  perhaps  more 
tenderer. 

Jean.  I  think  ye've  a  real  strange  way  o'  expressin' 
yoursel'. 

Hunt  (/^Jean).  I  can't  waste  time  on  you,  my  girl. 
It's  now  or  never.     Will  you  turn  king's  evidence  ? 

Jean.  I  think  ye'll  have  made  a  mistake,  like. 

Hunt.  Well.  I'm  .  .  .!  {Separating  them.)     [No, 

68 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

not  yet  ;  don't  push  me.]     George's  turn  now.     {To        \\\ 
GEORGE.)   George,  I've  a  warrant  in  my  pocket.  y 

Smith.  As  per  usual,  Jerry  ?  C 

Hunt.  Now  I  want  king's  evidence. 

Smith.  Ah  !  so  you  came  a  cropper  with  her,  Jerry. 
Pride  had  a  fall. 

Hunt.  A  free  pardon  and  fifty  shiners  clown. 

Smith.  A  free  pardon,  Jerry  ? 

Hunt.  Don't  I  tell  you  so  ? 

Smith.  And  fifty  down  ?  fifty  ? 

HUNT.   On  the  nail. 

Smith.  So  you  came  a  cropper  with  her,  and  then 
you  tried  it  on  with  me  ? 

Hunt.   I  suppose  you  mean  you're  a  born  idiot? 

Smith.  What  I  mean  is,  Jerry,  that  you've  broke 
my  heart.  I  used  to  look  up  to  you  like  a  party 
might  to  Julius  Caesar.  One  more  of  boyhood's 
dreams  gone  pop.     {Enter  Moore,  L.) 

Hunt  {to  both).  Come,  then,  I'll  take  the  pair,  and 
be  damned  to  you.  Free  pardon  to  both,  fifty  down 
and  the  Deacon  out  of  the  way.  I  don't  care  for  you 
commoners,  it's  the  Deacon  I  want. 

Jean  {looking  off  stolidly).  I  think  the  kirks  are 
scalin'.     There  seems  to  be  mair  people  in  the  streets. 

Hunt.  O  that's  the  way,  is  it  ?  Do  you  know  that 
I  can  hang  you,  my  woman,  and  your  fancy  man  as 
well  ? 

Jean.  I  daur  say  ye  would  like  fine,  Mr.  Hunt ; 
and  here's  my  service  to  you.     {Going.) 

69 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Hunt.  George,  don't  you  be  a  tomfool,  anyway. 
Y  Think  of  the  blowen  here,  and  have  brains  for  two. 

c      _  Smith   {going).    Ah,  Jerry,  if  you  knew  anything, 

how  different  you  would  talk!  {They  go  off  to- 
gether, R.) 

SCENE  III 

Hunt,  Moore 

gc    -  HUNT.  Half  a  tick,   Badger.      You're   a  man  of 

parts,  you  are  ;  you're  solid,  you're  a  true-born 
Englishman  ;  you  ain't  a  Jerry-go-Nimble  like  him. 
Do  you  know  what  your  pal  the  Deacon's  worth  to 
you  ?  Fifty  golden  Georges  and  a  free  pardon.  No 
questions  asked,  and  no  receipts  demanded.  What 
do  you  say  ?     Is  it  a  deal  ? 

Moore  (as  to  himself).     Muck.     (He  goes  out  R.) 

SCENE  IV 

Hunt,  to  whom  Ainslie 

Sc  A,  Hunt  (looking  after  then  ruefully).      And  these 

were  the  very  parties  I  was  looking  for  !  [Ah,  Jerry, 
Jerry,  if  they  knew  this  at  the  office  !]  Well,  the 
market  price  of  that  'ere  two  hundred  is  a  trifle  on  the 
decline  and  fall.  (Looking  L.)  Hullo  !  (Slapping 
his  thigh).  Send  me  victorious  !  It's  king's  evidence 
on  two  legs.  (Advancing  with  great  cordiality  to 
meet  Ainslie,  who  enters  L.)  And  so  your  name's 
Andrew  Ainslie,  is  it  ?  As  I  was  saying,  you're  the 
70 


Sc.  4 


THE    DOUBLE     LIFE 

very  party  I  was  looking  for.     Ain't  it  strange,  now,         HI 
that  I  should  have  dropped  across  your  comfortable  y 

and  promiscuous  like  this  ? 

AlNSLIE.  I  dinna  ken  wha  ye  are,  an'  I'm  ill  for 
my  bed. 

Hunt.  Let  your  bed  wait,  Andrew.  I  want  a  little 
chat  with  you  ;  just  a  quiet  little  sociable  wheeze. 
Just  about  our  friends,  you  know.  About  Badger 
Moore,  and  George  the  Dook,  and  Jemmy  Rivers, 
and  Deacon  Brodie,  Andrew.  Particularly  Deacon 
Brodie. 

AlNSLIE.  They're  nae  friens  o'  mine's,  mister.  I 
ken  naething  an'  naebody.  An'  noo  I'll  get  to  my 
bed,  wulln't  I  ? 

HUNT.  We're  going  to  have  our  little  talk  out 
first.  After  that  perhaps  I'll  let  you  go,  and  perhaps 
I  won't.  It  all  depends  on  how  we  get  along  together. 
Now,  in  a  general  way,  Andrew,  and  speaking  of  a 
man  as  you  find  him,  I'm  all  for  peace  and  quietness 
myself.  That's  my  usual  game,  Andrew,  but  when 
I  do  make  a  dust  I'm  considered  by  my  friends  to  be 
rather  a  good  hand  at  it.  So  don't  you  tread  upon 
the  worm. 

AlNSLIE.  But  I'm  sayin' 

Hunt.  You  leave  that  to  me,  Andrew.  You  shall 
do  your  pitch  presently.  I'm  first  on  the  ground, 
and  I  lead  off.  With  a  question,  Andrew.  Did  you 
ever  hear  in  your  life  of  such  a  natural  curiosity  as  a 
Bow  Street  Runner  ? 

7i 


Sc.  4 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

HI  Ainslie.  Aiblins  ay  an' aiblins  no. 

v  HUNT.   'Aiblins  ay   and  aiblins   no.'     Very  good 

indeed,    Andrew.     Now,  I'll   ask  you  another.     Did 
you  ever  see  a  Bow  Street  Runner,  Andrew  ?     With 
the  naked  eye,  so  to  speak  ? 
Ainslie.  What's  your  wull? 

HUNT.  Artful  bird  !  Now  since  we're  getting  on 
so  cosy  and  so  free,  I'll  ask  you  another,  Andrew. 
Should  you  like  to  see  a  Bow  Street  Runner  ?  (Pro- 
ducing staff.)  'Cos,  if  so,  you've  only  got  to  cast 
your  eyes  on  me.  Do  you  queer  the  red  weskit, 
Andrew  ?  Pretty  colour,  ain't  it  ?  So  nice  and  warm 
for  the  winter  too.  (Ainslie  dives,  HUNT  collars 
him.)  No,  you  don't.  Not  this  time.  Run  away 
like  that  before  we've  finished  our  little  conversation  ? 
You're  a  nice  young  man,  you  are.  Suppose  we  in- 
troduce our  wrists  into  these  here  darbies  ?  Now  we 
shall  get  along  cosier  and  freer  than  ever.  Want  to 
lie  down,  do  you  ?     All  right  !  anything  to  oblige. 

Ainslie  {grovelling).  It  wasna  me,  it  wasna  me. 
It's  bad  companions  ;  I've  been  lost  wi'  bad  com- 
panions an'  the  drink.  An'  O  mister,  ye'll  be  a  kind 
gentleman  to  a  puir  lad,  an'  me  sae  weak,  an'  fair 
rotten  wi'  the  drink  an'  that.  Ye've  a  bonnie  kind 
heart,  my  dear,  dear  gentleman  ;  ye  wadna  hang 
sitchan  a  thing  as  me.  I'm  no  fit  to  hang.  They 
ca'  me  the  Cannleworm  !  An'  I'll  dae  somethin'  for 
ye,  wulln't  I  ?     An'  ye'll  can  hang  the  ithers  ? 

HUNT.  I  thought  I  hadn't  mistook  my  man.   Now, 
72 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

you  look  here,  Andrew  Ainslie,  you're  a  bad  lot.         HI 
I've  evidence  to  hang  you  fifty  times  over.     But  the  v 

Deacon  is  my  mark.     Will  you  peach,  or  won't  you  ?      e 
You  blow  the  gaff,  and   I'll  pull  you  through.      You 
don't,   and    I'll    scragg   you  as  sure   as  my  name's 
Jerry  Hunt. 

Ainslie.  I'll  dae  onything.  It's  the  hanging  fleys 
me.     I'll  dae  onything,  onything  no  to  hang. 

Hunt.  Don't  lie  crawling  there,  but  get  up  and 
answer  me  like  a  man.  Ain't  this  Deacon  Brodie  the 
fine  workman  that's  been  doing  all  these  tip-topping 
burglaries  ? 

Ainslie.  It's  him,  mister ;  it's  him.  That's  the 
man.  Ye're  in  the  very  bit.  Deacon  Brodie.  I'll 
can  tak'  ye  to  his  vera  door. 

Hunt.  How  do  you  know? 

Ainslie.  I  gi'ed  him  a  han'  wi'  them  a'.  It  was 
him  an'  Badger  Moore,  and  Geordie  Smith  ;  an'  they 
gart  me  gang  wi'  them  whether  or  no  ;  I'm  that  weak, 
an'  whiles  I'm  donner'd  wi'  the  drink.  But  I  ken  a', 
an'  I'll  tell  a'.  And  O  kind  gentleman,  you'll  speak 
to  their  lordships  for  me,  an'  I'll  no  be  hangit  .  .  . 
I'll  no  be  hangit,  wull  I  ? 

Hunt.  But  you  shared,  didn't  you?  I  wonder 
what  share  they  thought  you  worth.  How  much  did 
you  get  for  last  night's  performance  down  at  Mother 
Clarke's  ? 

Ainslie.  Just  five  pund,  mister.  Five  pund.  As 
sure's  deith  it  wadna  be  a  penny  mair.     No  but  I 

73 


Sc.  4 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

askit  mair  :  I  did  that  ;  I'll  no  deny  it,  mister.  But 
Y  Badger  kickit  me,  an'  Geordie,  he  said  a  bad  sweir, 

an'  made  he'd  cut  the  liver  out  o'  me,  an'  catch  fish 
wi't.  It's  been  that  way  frae  the  first  :  an  aith  an' 
a  bawbee  was  aye  guid  eneuch  for  puir  Andra. 

Hunt.  Well,  and  why  did  they  do  it  ?  I  saw 
Jemmy  dance  a  hornpipe  on  the  table,  and  booze  the 
company  all  round,  when  the  Deacon  was  gone. 
What  made  you  cross  the  fight,  and  play  booty  with 
your  own  man  ? 

Ainslie.  Just  to  make  him  rob  the  Excise,  mister. 
They're  wicked,  wicked  men. 

Hunt.  And  is  he  right  for  it  ? 

Ainslie.  Ay  is  he. 

Hunt.  By  jingo!     When'sitfor? 

AlNSLIE.  Dear,  kind  gentleman,  I  dinna  rightly 
ken  :  the  Deacon's  that  sair  angered  wi'  me.  I'm  to 
get  my  orders  frae  Geordie  the  nicht. 

Hunt.  O,  you're  to  get  your  orders  from  Geordie, 
are  you  ?  Now  look  here,  Ainslie.  You  know  me. 
I'm  Hunt  the  Runner  ;  I  put  Jemmy  Rivers  in  the 
jug  this  morning  ;  I've  got  you  this  evening.  I  mean 
to  wind  up  with  the  Deacon.  You  understand  ?  All 
right.  Then  just  you  listen.  I'm  going  to  take  these 
here  bracelets  off,  and  send  you  home  to  that  cele- 
brated bed  of  yours.  Only,  as  soon  as  you've  seen 
the  Dook  you  come  straight  round  to  me  at  Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal's,  and  let  me  know  the  Dook's  views. 
One  word,  mind,  and  .  ,  .  cl'k  !     It's  a  bargain  ? 

74 


Sc.  4 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

AlNSLlE.  Never  you  fear  that.     I'll  tak'  my  bannet        HI 
an'  come  straucht  to  ye.     Eh  God,  I'm  glad  it's  nae  v 

mair  nor  that  to  start  wi'.  An'  may  the  Lord  bless 
ye,  dear,  kind  gentleman,  for  your  kindness.  May 
the  Lord  bless  ye. 

Hunt.  You  pad  the  hoof. 

AlNSLIE  (going  out).  An'  so  I  wull,  wulln't  I  not? 
An'  bless,  bless  ye  while  there's  breath  in  my  body, 
wulln't  I  not  ? 

Hunt  (solus).  You're  a  nice  young  man,  Andrew 
Ainslie.  Jemmy  Rivers  and  the  Deacon  in  two  days  ! 
By  jingo  !  (He  dances  an  instant  gravely,  whistling 
to  himself.)  Jerry,  that  'ere  little  two  hundred  of  ours 
is  as  safe  as  the  bank. 

TABLEAU    VI 

Unmasked 

The  Stage  represents  a  room  in  Leslie's  house.  A  practicable  window, 

C.,  through  which  a  band  of  strong  moonlight  falls  into  the 

room.     Near  the  window  a  strong-box.     A  practicable 

door  in  wing,  L.     Candlelight. 

SCENE   I  VI 

Leslie,  Lawson,  Mary,  seated.    Brodie  at  back,     Sc.  I 
walking  between  the  windows  and  the  strong-box. 

Lawson.  Weel,  weel,  weel,  weel,  nae  doubt. 
Leslie.   Mr.  Lawson,  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with 
Brodie's  word  ;  I  will  wait  gladly. 

75 


Sc.  i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

HI  Lawson.  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  that. 

VI  Brodie  {behind  Lawson).     Nor  for  it. 

Lawson.  For  it  ?  for  it,  William  ?  Ye're  perfectly 
richt  there.  (To  Leslie.)  Just  you  do  what  William 
tells  you  ;  ye  canna  do  better  than  that. 

Mary.  Dear  uncle,  I  see  you  are  vexed  ;  but  Will 
and  I  are  perfectly  agreed  on  the  best  course.  Walter 
and  I  are  young.  Oh,  we  can  wait ;  we  can  trust 
each  other. 

Brodie  (from  behind').  Leslie,  do  you  think  it  safe 
to  keep  this  strong-box  in  your  room  ? 

Leslie.   It  does  not  trouble  me. 

Brodie.  I  would  not.     'Tis  close  to  the  window. 

Leslie.  It's  on  the  right  side  of  it. 

Brodie.  I  give  you  my  advice  :   I  would  not. 

Lawson.  He  may  be  right  there  too,  Mr.  Leslie. 

Brodie.  I  give  him  fair  warning  :  it's  not  safe. 

Leslie.  I  have  a  different  treasure  to  concern  my- 
self about ;  if  all  goes  right  with  that  I  shall  be  well 
contented. 

Mary.  Walter ! 

Lawson.  Ay,  bairns,  ye  speak  for  your  age. 

Leslie.  Surely,  sir,  for  every  age  ;  the  ties  of  blood, 
of  love,  of  friendship,  these  are  life's  essence. 

Mary.  And  for  no  one  is  it  truer  than  my  uncle. 
If  he  live  to  be  a  thousand,  he  will  still  be  young  in 
heart,  full  of  love,  full  of  trust. 

Lawson.  Ah,  lassie,  it's  a  wicked  world. 

Mary.  Yes,you  are  out  of  sorts  to-day;  we  know  that. 

76 


Sc.  i 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Leslie.  Admitted  that  you  know  more  of  life,  sir  ; 
admitted  (if  you  please)  that  the  world  is  wicked  ;  yet         yj 
you  do  not  lose  trust  in  those  you  love. 

LAWSON.  Weel  ...  ye  get  gliffs,  ye  ken. 

Leslie.  I  suppose  so.  We  can  all  be  shaken  for 
a  time  ;  but  not,  I  think,  in  our  friends.  We  are  not 
deceived  in  them  ;  in  the  few  that  we  admit  into  our 
hearts. 

Mary.  Never  in  these. 

Leslie.  We  know  these  (to  Brodie),  and  we  think 
the  world  of  them. 

Brodie  (at  back).  We  are  more  acquainted  with 
each  other's  tailors,  believe  me.  You,  Leslie,  are  a 
very  pleasant  creature.  My  uncle  Lawson  is  the 
Procurator-Fiscal.  I  —  What  am  I  ?  —  I  am  the 
Deacon  of  the  Wrights,  my  ruffles  are  generally 
clean.     And  you  think  the  world  of  me  ?     Bravo  ! 

Leslie.  Ay,  and  I  think  the  world  of  you. 

Brodie  (at  back,  pointing  to  Lawson).  Ask  him. 

Lawson.  Hoot-toot.  A  wheen  nonsense  :  an 
honest  man's  an  honest  man,  and  a  randy  thief's 
a  randy  thief,  and  "neither  mair  nor  less.  Mary,  my 
lamb,  it's  time  you  were  name,  and  had  your  beauty 
sleep. 

Mary.  Do  you  not  come  with  us  ? 

Lawson.  I  gang  the  ither  gate,  my  lamb.  (Leslie 
helps  Mary  on  with  her  cloak,  and  they  say  farewell 
at  back.  BRODIE,  for  the  first  time,  comes  front  with 
Lawson.)     Sae  ye've  consented  ? 

77 


Sc.  i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

HI  BRODIE.  As  you  see. 

VI  Lawson.  Ye'll  can  pay  it  back  ? 

Bkodie.  I  will. 

Lawson.  And  how  ?     That's  what  I'm  wonderin' 
to  myseP. 

BRODIE.  Ay,  God  knows  that. 

Mary.  Come,  Will. 


SCENE    II 
Leslie,  Lawson  {wrapping  up) 

gc   2  LESLIE.  I  wonder  what  ails  Brodie. 

Lawson.  How  should  I  ken  ?  What  should  I  ken 
that  ails  him  ? 

Leslie.  He  seemed  angry  even  with  you. 

Lawson  {impatient).  Hoot  awa'. 

Leslie.  Of  course,  I  know.  But  you  see,  on  the 
very  day  when  our  engagement  is  announced,  even 
the  best  of  men  may  be  susceptible.  You  yourself 
seem  not  quite  pleased. 

Lawson  {with  great  irritation).  I'm  perfectly 
pleased.  I'm  perfectly  delighted.  If  I  werena  an 
auld  man,  I'd  be  just  beside  myseP  wi'  happiness. 

Leslie.  Well,  I  only  fancied. 

Lawson.  Ye  had  nae  possible  excuse  to  fancy. 
Fancy  ?  Perfect  trash  and  nonsense.  Look  at 
yersel'.  Ye  look  like  a  ghaist,  ye're  white-like,  ye're 
black  aboot  the  een  ;  and  do  ye  find  me  deavin'  ye 

78 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

wi'  fancies?     Or  William  Brodie  either?     I'll  say        HI 
that  for  him.  yj 

Leslie.  'Tis  not  sorrow  that  alters  my  complexion  ;      q      0 
I've  something  else  on  hand.     Come,  I'll  tell  you, 
under  seal.     I've  not  been  in  bed  till  daylight  for  a 
week. 

Lawson.  Weel,  there's  nae  sense  in  the  like  o' 
that. 

Leslie.  Gad,  but  there  is  though.  Why,  Procura- 
tor, this  is  town's  business  ;  this  is  a  municipal  affair  ; 
I'm  a  public  character.  Why  ?  Ah,  here's  a  nut  for 
the  Crown  Prosecutor  !  I'm  a  bit  of  a  party  to  a 
robbery. 

Lawson.  Guid  guide  us,  man,  what  d'ye  mean  ? 

Leslie.  You  shall  hear.  A  week  ago  to-night,  I 
was  passing  through  this  very  room  without  a  candle 
on  my  way  to  bed,  when  .  .  .  what  should  I  see,  but 
a  masked  man  fumbling  at  that  window  !  How  he 
did  the  Lord  knows.  I  suspect,  Procurator,  it  was 
not  the  first  he'd  tried  ...  for  he  opened  it  as 
handily  as  his  own  front  door. 

Lawson.  Preserve  me!  Another  of  thae  robberies! 

Leslie.  That's  it.  And,  of  course,  I  tried  to  seize 
him.  But  the  rascal  was  too  quick.  He  was  down 
and  away  in  an  instant.  You  never  saw  a  thing  so 
daring  and  adroit. 

Lawson.  Is  that  a'?  Ye're  a  bauld  lad,  I'll  say 
that  for  ye.     I'm  glad  it  wasna  waur. 

Leslie.  Yes,  that's  all  plain  sailing.     But  here's 

79 


VI 
Sc.  2 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

HI  the  hitch.  Why  didn't  I  tell  the  Procurator-Fiscal  ? 
You  never  thought  of  that. 

LAWSON.  No,  man.     Why  ? 

Leslie.  Aha!  There's  the  riddle.  Will  you  guess  ? 
No  ?  .   .  .   I  thought  I  knew  the  man. 

Lawson.  What  d'ye  say  ? 

Leslie.  I  thought  I  knew  him. 

Lawson.  Wha  was't  ? 

Leslie.  Ah,  there  you  go  beyond  me.  That  I 
cannot  tell. 

Lawson.  As  God  sees  ye,  laddie,  are  ye  speaking 
truth  ? 

Leslie.  Well  ...  of  course  ! 

Lawson.  The  haill  truth  ? 

Leslie.  All  of  it.     Why  not  ? 

Lawson.  Man,  I'd  a  kind  o'  gliff. 

Leslie.  Why,  what  were  you  afraid  of?  Had  you 
a  suspicion  ? 

Lawson.  Me  ?  Me  a  suspicion  ?  Ye're  daft,  sir  ; 
and  me  the  Crown  Offeecial !  ...  Eh  man,  I'm  a' 
shakin'  .  .  .  And  sae  ye  thocht  ye  kennt  him  ? 

Leslie.  I  did  that.  And  what's  more,  I've  sat 
every  night  in  case  of  his  return.  I  promise  you, 
Procurator,  he  shall  not  slip  me  twice.  Meanwhile 
I'm  worried  and  put  out.  You  understand  how  such 
a  fancy  will  upset  a  man.  I'm  uneasy  with  my  friends 
and  on  bad  terms  with  my  own  conscience.  I  keep 
watching,  spying,  comparing,  putting  two  and  two 
together,  hunting   for  resemblances  until  my  head 

80 


G 


Sc.  2 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

goes  round.     It's  like  a  puzzle  in  a  dream.      Only        HI 
yesterday  I   thought    I    had    him.     And  who  d'you         yj 
think  it  was  ? 

Lawson.  Wha?  Whawas't?  Speak,  Mr.  Leslie, 
speak.     I'm  an  auld  man  ;  dinna  forget  that. 

Leslie.  I  name  no  names.  It  would  be  unjust  to 
him  ;  and,  upon  my  word,  it  was  so  silly  it  would  be 
unfair  to  me.  However,  here  I  sit,  night  after  night. 
I  mean  him  to  come  back  ;  come  back  he  shall ;  and 
I'll  tell  you  who  he  was  next  morning. 

Lawson.  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  Mr.  Leslie  ;  ye 
dinna  ken  what  ye  micht  see.  And  then,  leave  him 
alane,  he'll  come  nae  mair.  And  sitting  up  a'  nicht 
.  .  .  it's  ^.factum  imprestabile,  as  we  say  :  a  thing 
impossible  to  man.  Gang  ye  to  your  bed,  like  a  guid 
laddie,  and  sleep  lang  and  soundly,  and  bonnie, 
bonnie  dreams  to  ye!  {Without.)  Let  sleeping 
dogs  lie,  and  gang  ye  to  your  bed. 

SCENE    III 

Leslie 

LESLIE  [calling).  In  good  time,  never  fear !  {He  gc  -, 
carefully  bolts  and  chains  the  door.)  The  old  gentle- 
man seems  upset.  What  for,  I  wonder  ?  Has  he 
,  had  a  masked  visitor  ?  Why  not  ?  It's  the  fashion. 
Out  with  the  lights.  {Blows  out  the  candles.  The 
stage  is  only  lighted  by  the  moon  through  the  window.) 
He  is  sure  to  come,  one  night  or  other.     He  must 

81 


DEACON     13RODIE     OR 

come.     Right  or  wrong,  I  feel  it  in  the  air.     Man,  but 

Yj         I  know  you,  1  know  you  somewhere.     That  trick  of 

c       ,,      the  shoulders,  the  hang  of   the  clothes — whose  are 

"  ^      they  ?     Where  have  I  seen  them  ?     And  then,  that 

single  look  of  the  eye,  that  one  glance  about  the  room 

as  the  window  opened  ...   it  is  almost  friendly  ;   I 

have  caught  it  over  the  glass's  rim  !     If  it  should  be 

.  .  .  his  ?     No,  his  it  is  not. 

Watchman  {without).  Past  ten  o'clock,  and  a  fine 
moonlight  night. 

Another  [further  away).  Past  ten  o'clock,  and 
all's  well. 

Leslie.  Past  ten  ?  Ah,  there's  a  long  night  before 
you  and  me,  watchmen.  Heavens,  what  a  trade  ! 
But  it  will  be  something  to  laugh  over  with  Mary  and 
.  .  .  with  him  ?  Damn  it,  the  delusion  is  too  strong 
for  me.  It's  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of.  '  We  Brodies  '  : 
how  she  says  it!  '  We  Brodies  and  our  Deacon'  : 
what  a  pride  she  takes  in  it,  and  how  good  it  sounds 
to  me  !  '  Deacon  of  his  craft,  sir,  Deacon  of  the  .  .  .' 
(Brodie,  masked,  appears  without  at  the  window, 
which  he  proceeds  to  force.)  Ha!  I  knew  he'd  come. 
I  was  sure  of  it.  [He  crouches  near  and  nearer  to  the 
window,  keeping  in  the  shade.)  And  I  know  you  too. 
I  swear  I  know  you. 


82 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

III 

SCENE    IV  VI 

Brodie,  Leslie  Sc.  4 

Brodie  enters  by  the  window  with  assurance  and 
ease,  closes  it  silently,  and  proceeds  to  traverse  the 
room.  As  he  moves,  Leslie  leaps  tipon  and  grapples 
him. 

Leslie.  Take  off  that  mask ! 

Brodie.   Hands  off! 

Leslie.   Take  off  the  mask  ! 

Brodie.  Leave  go,  by  God,  leave  go  ! 

Leslie.  Take  it  off  ! 

Brodie  {overpowered).  Leslie  .... 

Leslie.  Ah  !  you  know  me  !  {Succeeds  in  tearing 
off  the  mash.)     Brodie  ! 

Brodie  {in  the  moonlight).  Brodie. 

Leslie.  You  .  .  .  you,  Brodie,  you  ? 

Brodie.  Brodie,  sir,  Brodie  as  you  see. 

Leslie.  What  does  it  mean  ?  What  does  it  mean, 
my  God  ?  Were  you  here  before  ?  Is  this  the  sec- 
ond time  ?  Are  you  a  thief,  man  ?  are  you  a  thief? 
Speak,  speak,  or  I'll  kill  you. 

Brodie.  I  am  a  thief. 

Leslie.  And  my  friend,  my  own  friend,  and  .  .  . 
Mary,  Mary  !  .  .  .  Deacon,  Deacon,  for  God's  sake, 
no  ! 

Brodie.  God  help  me  ! 

Leslie.  '  We  Brodies  !  We  Brodies  ! ' 

83 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

Brodie.  Leslie 

LESLIE.  Stand  off!     Don't  touch  me!     You're  a 
thief! 


VI 


Sc.  4 


Brodie.  Leslie,  Leslie 

Leslie.  A  thief's  sister  !  Why  are  you  here  ?  why 
are  you  here  ?  Tell  me  !  Why  do  you  not  speak  ? 
Man,  I  know  you  of  old.  Are  you  Brodie,  and  have 
nothing  to  say  ? 

Brodie.  To  say  ?  Not  much — God  help  me — and 
commonplace,  commonplace  like  sin.  I  was  honest 
once  ;  I  made  a  false  step  ;  I  couldn't  retrace  it  ; 
and  .  .  .  that  is  all. 

Leslie.  You  have  forgot  the  bad  companions  ! 

Brodie.   I  did  forget  them.     They  were  there. 

Leslie.  Commonplace  !  Commonplace  !  Do  you 
speak  to  me,  do  you  reason  with  me,  do  you  make 
excuses  ?  You — a  man  found  out,  shamed,  a  liar,  a 
thief— a  man  that's  killed  me,  killed  this  heart  in  my 
body  ;  and  you  speak  !  What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  hold 
your  life  in  my  hand  ;  have  you  thought  of  that  ? 
What  am  I  to  do  ? 

Brodie.  Do  what  you  please ;  you  have  me 
trapped. 

(Jean  Watt  is  heard  singing  without  two  bars  of 
'  Wander  in'  Willie?  by  way  of  signal.) 

Leslie.  What  is  that  ? 

Brodie.  A  signal. 

Leslie.  What  does  it  mean  ? 

Brodie.  Danger  to  me  ;  there  is  some  one  coming 

84 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Leslie.  Danger  to  you  ?  Ill 

Brodie.  Some  one    is   coming.      What  are    you         yj 

going  to  do  with  me  ?     (A  knock  at  the  door.)  c       . 

Leslie  {after  a  pause).  Sit  down.     {Knocking.) 
Brodie.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ? 
Leslie.  Sit  down.     (Brodie  sits  in  darkest  part 

of  stage.     Leslie  opens  door,  and  admits  Lawson. 

Door  open  till  end  of  Act.) 


SCENE   V 
Brodie,  Lawson,  Leslie 

Lawson.  This  is  an  unco'  time  to  come  to  your      c_    _ 
door;  but  eh,  laddie,  I  couldna  bear  to  think  o'  ye 
sittin'  your  lane  in  the  dark. 

Leslie.  It  was  very  good  of  you. 

Lawson.   I'm  no  very  fond  of  playing  hidee  in  the 
dark  mysel' ;  and  noo  that  I'm  here 

Leslie.  I   will   give    you  a  light.     (He  lights  the 
candles.     Lights  tip.) 

Lawson.  God  A'michty  !     William  Brodie  ! 

Leslie.  Yes,  Brodie  was  good  enough  to  watch 
with  me. 

Lawson.  But  he  gaed  awa'  ...  I  dinna  see  .  .  . 
an'  Lord  be  guid  to  us,  the  window's  open  ! 

Leslie.  A    trap   we   laid  for    them  :    a  device  of 
Brodie's. 

Brodie  (to  Lawson).  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief. 

35 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

II        {Passing  to  Leslie,  aside.)  Walter  Leslie,  God  will 
,-j         reward.     (Jean  signals  again.) 
o  Lawson.  I  dinna  like  that  singin'  at  siccan  a  time 

3      o'  the  nicht. 

Brodie.  I  must  go. 

Lawson.  Not  one  foot  o1  ye.  I'm  owcr  glad  to 
find  ye  in  guid  hands.     Ay,  ye  dinna  ken  how  glad. 

Brodie  {aside  to  Leslie).  Get  me  out  of  this. 
There's  a  man  there  will  stick  at  nothing. 

Leslie.  Mr.  Lawson,  Brodie  has  done  his  shift. 
Why  should  we  keep  him?  (Jean  appears  at  the 
door,  and  signs  to  Brodie.) 

Lawson.  Hoots !  this  is  my  trade.  That's  a  bit 
o'  '  Wanderin'  Willie.'  I've  had  it  before  me  in 
precognitions  ;  that  same  stave  has  been  used  for  a 
signal  by  some  o'  the  very  warst  o'  them. 

Brodie  {aside  to  Leslie).  Get  me  out  of  this. 
I'll  never  forget  to-night.     (Jean  at  door  again.) 

Leslie.  Well,  good-night,  Brodie.  When  shall 
we  meet  again  ? 

Lawson.  Not  one  foot  o'  him.  (Jean  at  door.)  I 
tell  you,  Mr.  Leslie 

SCENE   VI 

To  these,  Jean 

cr  f.         Jean  {from  the  door).  Wullie,  Wullie  ! 

Lawson.  Guid  guide  us,  Mrs.  Watt !     A  dacent 
86 


VI 

Sc.  6 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

wumman  like  yoursel'  !  Whatten  a  time  o'  nicht  is 
this  to  come  to  folks'  doors  ? 

Jean  (to  Brodie).  Hawks,  Wullie,  hawks ! 

Brodie.  I  suppose  you  know  what  you've  done, 
Jean  ? 

Jean.  I  had  to  come,  Wullie,  he  vvadna  wait 
another  minit.     He  wad  have  come  himsel'. 

Brodie.  This  is  my  mistress. 

Lawson.   William,  dinna  tell  me  nae  mair. 

Brodie.  I  have  told  you  so  much.  You  may  as 
well  know  all.  That  good  man  knows  it  already. 
Have  you  issued  a  warrant  for  me  ....  yet  ? 

Lawson.  No,  no,  man  :  not  another  word. 

Brodie  (pointing  to  the  window).  That  is  my 
work.  I  am  the  man.  Have  you  drawn  the  war- 
rant ? 

Lawson  (breaking  down).  Your  father's  son  ! 

Leslie  (to  Lawson).  My  good  friend  !  Brodie, 
you  might  have  spared  the  old  man  this. 

BRODIE.  I  might  have  spared  him  years  ago  ;  and 
you  and  my  sister,  and  myself.  I  might  .  .  .  would 
God  I  had!  (Weeping  himself.)  Don't  weep,  my 
good  old  friend  ;  I  was  lost  long  since  ;  don't  think 
of  me  ;  don't  pity  me  ;  don't  shame  me  with  your 
pity  !  I  began  this  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  bound  the 
millstone  round  my ,.<neck  ;  [it  is  irrevocable  now,] 
and  you  must  all  suffer  ...  all  suffer  for  me !  .  .  . 
[for  this  suffering  remnant  of  what  was  once  a  man]. 
O  God,  that  I  can  have  fallen  to  stand  here  as  I  do 

37 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

now.     My  friend  lying  to  save  me  from  the  gallows  ; 

yj         my   second    father   weeping    tears  of  blood  for  my 

c  c  c.      disgrace  !     And  all  for  what  ?     By  what  ?     Because 

I  had  an   open  hand,  because  I  was  a   selfish  dog, 

because  I  loved  this  woman. 

Jean.  O  Wullie,  and  she  lo'ed  ye  weel  !  But  come 
near  me  nae  mair,  come  near  me  nae  mair,  my  man  ; 
keep  wi'  your  ain  folks  .  .  .  your  ain  dacent  folks. 

Lawson.  Mistress  Watt,  ye  shall  sit  rent  free  as 
lang's  there's  breath  in  William  Lawson's  body. 

Leslie.  You  can  do  one  thing  still  .  .  .  for  Mary's 
sake.     You  can  save  yourself;  you  must  fly. 

Brodie.  It  is  my  purpose  ;  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. It  cannot  be  before.  Then  I  will  fly  ;  and 
O,  as  God  sees  me,  I  will  strive  to  make  a  new  and  a 
better  life,  and  to  be  worthy  of  your  friendship,  and 
of  your  tears  .  .  .  your  tears.  And  to  be  worthy  of 
you  too,  Jean  ;  for  I  see  now  that  the  bandage  has 
fallen  from  my  eyes  ;  I  see  myself,  O  how  unworthy 
even  of  you. 

Leslie.  Why  not  to-night  ? 

Brodie.  It  cannot  be  before.  There  are  many 
considerations.     I  must  find  money. 

Jean.  Leave  me,  and  the  wean.  Dinna  fash 
yourseP  for  us. 

Leslie  {opening  the  strong-box,  and  pouring  gold 
upon  the  table).     Take  this  and  go  at  once. 

Brodie.  Not  that  .  .  .  not  the  money  that  I  came 
to  steal ! 

88 


VI 

Sc.  6 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

LAWSON.  Tak' it,  William;   I'll  pay  him.  HI 

Brodie.  It  is  in  vain.  I  cannot  leave  till  I  have 
said.  There  is  a  man  ;  I  must  obey  him.  If  I  slip 
my  chain  till  he  has  done  with  me,  the  hue  and  cry 
will  blaze  about  the  country  ;  every  outport  will  be 
shut ;  I  shall  return  to  the  gallows.  He  is  a  man 
that  will  stick  at  nothing. 


SCENE  VII 

To    these,  MOORE 

MOORE.     Are  you  coming  ?  cp    ^ 

Brodie.  I  am  coming.  '  ' 

Moore  {appearing  in  the  door).     Do  you  want  us 


all  to  get  thundering  well  scragged  ? 
Brodie  [going).     There  is  my  master. 


Act-Drop 


89 


ACT    IV 
TABLEAU    VII 

The  Robbery 

'The  Stage  represents  the  outside  of  the  Excise  Office  in   ChessePs 

Court.     At  the  back,  L.C.,  an  arclnvay  opening  on  the  High  Street. 

The  door  of  the  Excise  in  wing,  R.;  the  opposite  side  of  the  stage  is 

lumbered  with  barrels,  packing-cases,  etc.     Moonlight  ;  the  Excise 

Office  casts  a  shadow  over  half  the  stage.     A  clock  strikes  the  hour. 

A  round  of  the  City  Guard,  with  halberts,  lanterns,  etc.,  enters  and 

goes  out  again  by  the  arch,  after  having  examined  the  fastenings  of 

the  great  door  and  the  lumber  on  the  left.     Cry  without  in  the 

High  Street :    '  Ten  by  the  bell,  and  a  fine  clear  night.' 

Then  enter  cautiously  by  the  arch,  Smith  and 

Moore,  with  Ainslie  loaded  with  tools. 

SCENE    I 
yjj  Smith,  Moore,  Ainslie 

Sc.  I  Smith  {entering first).  Come  on.     Coast  clear. 

MOORE  [after  they  have  come  to  the  front).  Ain't 
he  turned  up  yet  ? 

Smith  (to  Ainslie).  Now  Maggot !  The  fishing's 
a  going  to  begin. 

Ainslie.  Dinna  cangle,  Geordie.  My  backs  fair 
broke. 

90 


IV 


Sc. 


DEACON     BRODIE 

MOORE.  O  muck  !     Hand  out  them  pieces.  IV 

Smith.  All  right,  Humptious !  {To  Ainslie.)  vii 
You're  a  nice  old  sort  for  a  rag-and-bone  man  :  can't 
hold  a  bag  open!  {Taking  out  tools.)  Here  they 
was.  Here  are  the  bunchums,  one  and  two  ;  and 
jolly  old  keys  was  they.  Here's  the  picklocks,  crow- 
bars, and  here's  Lord  George's  pet  bull's  eye,  his  old 
and  valued  friend,  the  Cracksman's  treasure  ! 

Moore.  Just  like  you.    Forgot  the  rotten  centrebit. 

Smith.  That's  all  you  know.  Here  she  is,  bless 
her  !     Portrait  of  George  as  a  gay  hironmonger. 

Moore.  O  rot  !  Hand  it  over,  and  keep  yourself 
out  of  that  there  thundering  moonlight. 

Smith  {lighting  lantern).  All  right,  old  mumble- 
peg.  Don't  you  get  carried  away  by  the  fire  of  old 
Rome.  That's  your  motto.  Here  are  the  tools  ;  a 
perfect  picter  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful ;  and  all  I 
hope  is,  that  our  friend  and  pitcher,  the  Deakin,  will 
make  a  better  job  of  it  than  he  did  last  night.  If  he 
don't,  I  shall  retire  from  the  business — that's  all  ; 
and  it'll  be  George  and  his  little  wife  and  a  black 
footman  till  death  do  us  part. 

Moore.  O  muck  !  You're  all  jaw  like  a  sheep's 
jimmy.  That's  my  opinion  of  you.  When  did  you 
see  him  last  ? 

Smith.  This  morning  ;  and  he  looked  as  if  he  was 
rehearsing  for  his  own  epitaph.  I  never  see  such  a 
change  in  a  man.  I  gave  him  the  office  for  to-night  ; 
and  was  he  grateful  ?     Did  he  weep  upon  my  faithful 

9i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

IV  bosom  ?  No  ;  he  smiled  upon  me  like  a  portrait  of 
Yjt  the  dear  departed.  I  see  his  'art  was  far  away  ;  and 
cr    r      it  broke  my  own  to  look  at  him. 

MOORE.  Muck  !  Wot  I  ses  is,  if  a  cove's  got  that 
much  of  the  nob  about  him,  wot's  the  good  of  his 
working  single-handed  ?  That's  wot's  the  matter 
with  him. 

Smith.  Well,  old  Father  Christmas,  he  ain't  single 
handed  to-night,  is  he  ? 

Moore.  No,  he  ain't  ;  he's  got  a  man  with  him 
to-night. 

Smith.  Pardon  me,  Romeo  ;  two  men,  I  think  ? 

Moore.  A  man  wot  means  business.  If  I'd  a'bin 
with  him  last  night,  it  ain't  psalm-singin'  would  have 
got  us  off.  Psalm-singin'  ?  Muck  !  Let  'em  try  it 
on  with  me. 

Ainslie.  Losh  me,  I  heard  a  noise.  [Alarm  ;  they 
cro7ich  into  the  shadow  and  listen!) 

SMITH.  All  serene.  (To  Ainslie.)  Am  I  to  cut 
that  liver  out  of  you  ?  Now,  am  I  ?  (A  whistle.) 
'St!  here  we  are.  (Whistles  a  modulation,  which  is 
answered.) 

SCENE  II 

To  these  BRODIE 

Sc.  2  MOORE.  Waiting  for  you,  Deacon. 

Brodie.  I  see.     Everything  ready  ? 
Smith.  All  a-growing  and  a-blowing. 
92 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie.   Givr    me    the    light.     {Briefly    examines         IV 
tools  and  door  with  bull's  eye.)     You,  George,  stand        yjj 
by,  and  hand  up  the  pieces.     Ainslie,  take  the  glim.      qr 
Moore,  out  and  watch. 

Moore.  I  didn't  come  here  to  do  sentry-go,  I 
didn't. 

Brodie.  You  came  here  to  do  as  I  tell  you. 
(Moore  goes  up  slowly.)  Second  bunch,  George. 
I  know  the  lock.  Steady  with  the  glim.  (At  work.) 
No  good.     Give  me  the  centrebit. 

Smith.  Right.  (Work  continues.  Ainslie  drops 
la  liter n.) 

Brodie.  Curse  you  !  (Throttling  and  hiding  him.) 
You  shake,  and  you  shake,  and  you  can't  even  hold 
a  light  for  your  betters.     Hey  ? 

Ainslie.  Eh  Deacon,  Deacon  .  .   . 

SMITH.   N  o  w  G  h  o  s  t !      ( With  la  n  tern . ) 

Brodie.  'St,  Moore  ! 

Moore.  Wot's  the  row  ? 

Brodie.  Take  you  the  light. 

Moore  (A?  Ainslie).  Wo'j' yershakin'at?  (Kicks 
him.) 

Brodie  (to  Ainslie).  Go  you,  and  see  if  you're 
good  at  keeping  watch.  Inside  the  arch.  And  if  you 
let  a  footfall  pass,  I'll  break  your  back.  (Ainslie 
retires)  Steady  with  the  light.  (At  work  with 
centrebit.)  Hand  up  number  four,  George.  (At  work 
with  picklock.)     That  has  it. 

SMITH.   Well  clone,  our  side. 

93 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 


V 


Sc 


IV  Brodie.  Now  the    crowbar!     {At  work.)     That's 

VII  it.  Put  down  the  glim,  Badger,  and  help  at  the 
wrench.  Your  whole  weight,  men  !  Put  your  backs 
to  it !  {While  they  work  at  the  bar,  Brodie  stands 
by,  dusting  his  hands  with  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
As  the  door  opens.)      Voila  !     In  with  you. 

MOORE  [entering  with  light).  Mucking  fine  work 
too,  Deacon  ! 

Brodie.  Take  up  the  irons,  George  ! 

Smith.  How  about  the  P(h)antom  ? 

Brodie.  Leave  him  to  me.  I'll  give  him  a  look. 
{Enters  office.) 

Smith  {following).  Houp-la ! 

SCENE   III 

AlNSLIE  ;    afterwards  Brodie  ;    afterwards  HUNT 
and  Officers 

Sc.  3  AlNSLIE.  Ca'  ye    that   mainners  ?      Ye're    grand 

gentry  by  your  way  o't  !  Eh  sirs,  my  hench  !  Ay, 
that  was  the  Badger.  Man,  but  ye'll  look  bonnie 
hangin'  !  {A  faint  whistle.)  Lord's  sake,  what's 
thon  ?  Ay,  it'll  be  Hunt  an'  his  lads.  {Whistle  re- 
peated.) Losh  me,  what  gars  him  whustle,  whustle  ? 
Does  he  think  me  deaf?  {Goes  up.  Brodie  enters 
from  office,  stands  an  instant,  and  sees  him  making  a 
signal  through  the  arch.) 

Brodie.  Rats  !  Rats  !  {Hides  L.  among  lumber. 
Enter  noiselessly  through  arch  Hunt  ««^Officers.) 

94 


Sc.3 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Hunt.  Birds  caught  ?  IV 

Ainslie.  They're  a'  ben  the  house,  mister.  VII 

Hunt.  All  three  ? 

Ainslie.  The  hale  set,  mister. 

Brodie.   Liar  ! 

Hunt.  Mum,  lads,  and  follow  me.  {Exit,  with  his 
men,  into  office.     Brodie  seen  with  dagger.) 

Hunt.  In  the  King's  name  !       ) 

Moore.  Muck!  (  ,withi)u) 

Smith.   Go  it,  Badger.  [ 

Hunt.  Take  'em  alive,  boys  !  ) 

Ainslie.  Eh,  but  that's  awfu'.  (The  Deacon  leaps 
out  and  stabs  him.     He  falls  without  a  cry.) 

Brodie.  Saved!     (He  goes  out  by  the  arch.) 

SCENE    IV 

Hunt  and  Officers  ;    with   Smith   and  Moore 
handcuffed.     Signs  of  a  severe  struggle 

Hunt  (entering).  Bring 'em  along,  lads!  (Looking      Cp    . 
at  prisoners  with  lantern.)  Pleased  to  see  you  again, 
Badger.     And  you,  too,  George.    But  I'd  rather  have 
seen  your  principal.     Where's  he  got  to  ? 

Moore.  To  hell,  I  hope. 

Hunt.  Always  the  same  pretty  flow  of  language,  I 
see,  Hump.  (Looking  at  burglary  with  lantern.)  A 
very  tidy  piece  of  work,  Dook  ;  very  tidy  !  Much  too 
good  for  you.  Smacks  of  a  fine  tradesman.  It  was 
the  Deacon,  I  suppose  ? 

95 


Sc.  4 


DEACON     BRODIE 

IV  Smith.  You  ought  to  know  G.  S.  better  by  this 

yjj        time,  Jerry. 

Hunt.  All  right,  your  Grace  :  we'll  talk  it  over 
with  the  Deacon  himself.  Where's  the  jackal  ? 
Here,  you,  Ainslic !  Where  are  you?  By  jingo,  I 
thought  as  much.  Stabbed  to  the  heart  and  dead 
as  a  herring  ! 

Smith.  Bravo  ! 

Hunt.  More  of  the  Deacon's  work,  I  guess  ?  Does 
him  credit  too,  don't  it,  Badger  ? 

MOORE.  Muck.  Was  that  the  thundering  cove 
that  peached  ? 

HUNT.  That  was  the  thundering  cove. 

Moore.  And  is  he  corpsed  ? 

Hunt.  I  should  just  about  reckon  he  was. 

Moore.  Then,  damme,  I  don't  mind  swinging  ! 

HUNT.  We'll  talk  about  that  presently.  M'Intyre 
and  Stewart,  you  get  a  stretcher,  and  take  that 
rubbish  to  the  office.  Pick  it  up  ;  it's  only  a  dead 
informer.  Hand  these  two  gentlemen  over  to  Mr. 
Procurator-Fiscal,  with  Mr.  Jerry  Hunt's  compli- 
ments. Johnstone  and  Syme,  you  come  along  with 
me.     I'll  bring  the  Deacon  round  myself. 


Act-Drop 


96 


ACT  V 

TABLEAU    VIII 
The  Open  Door 

The  Stage  represents  the  Deacon's  room,  as  in    Tableau  I.     Fire- 
light.    Stage  dark.     A  pause.     Then  knocking  at  the  door,  C. 
Cries  without  of  '  Willie  !  '  '  Mr.  Brodie  !  ' 
The  door  is  burst  open 

SCENE  I  y 

Doctor,  Mary,  a  Maidservant  with  lights  vill 

Doctor.   The  apartment  is  unoccupied.  Sc.  I 

Mary.  Dead,  and  he  not  here  ! 

Doctor.  The  bed  has  not  been    slept   in.     The 
counterpane  is  not  turned  down. 

Mary.  It  is  not  true  ;  it  cannot  be  true. 

DOCTOR.  My    dear   young   lady,  you    must  have 
misunderstood  your  brother's  language. 

Mary.  O  no  ;  that  I  did  not.     That  I  am  sure  I 
did  not. 

DOCTOR  {looking  at  door).     The  strange  thing  is 
....  the  bolt. 

Servant.  It's  unco  strange. 

97 


Sc.  i 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

V  Doctor.  Well,  we  have  acted  for  the  best. 

VIIj  Servant.  Sir,  1  dinna  think  this  should  gang  nae 

further. 

Doctor.  The  secret  is  in  our  keeping.  Affliction 
is  enough  without  scandal. 

Mary.  Kind  heaven,  what  does  it  mean  ? 

DOCTOR.   1  think  there  is  no  more  to  be  done. 

Mary.  I  am  here  alone,  Doctor  ;  you  pass  my 
uncle's  door  ? 

DOCTOR.  The  Procurator-Fiscal  ?  I  shall  make  it 
my  devoir.    Expect  him  soon.    (Goes  oid  with  Maid.) 

Mary  (hastily  searches  the  room).  No,  he  is  not 
there.  She  was  right !  O  father,  you  can  never 
know,  praise  God  ! 

SCENE  II 
Mary  to  whom  Jean  and  afterwards  Leslie 

Sc.  2         Jean  (at  door).     Mistress  .  .  .  .  ! 

Mary.  Ah  !     Who  is  there  ?     Who  are  you  ? 

Jean.  Is  he  no  hame  yet  ?    I'm  aye  waitin'  on  him. 

Mary.  Waiting  for  him  ?  Do  you  know  the 
Deacon  ?     You  ? 

Jean.  I  maun  see  him.  Eh,  lassie,  it's  life  and 
death. 

Mary.  Death  .  .   .  O  my  heart ! 

Jean.  I  maun  see  him,  bonnie  leddie.  I'm  a  puir 
body,  and  no  fit  to  be  seen  speakin'  wi'  the  likes  o' 
you.     But  O  lass,  ye  are  the  Deacon's  sister,  and  ye 

98 


Sc.  2 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

hae  the  Deacon's  e'en,  and  for  the  love  of  the  dear         V 
kind  Lord,  let's  in  and  hae  a  word  \vi'  him  ere  it  be        vill 
ower  late.     I'm  bringin'  siller. 

Mary.  Siller  ?  You  ?  For  him  ?  O  father,  father, 
if  you  could  hear!  What  are  you?  What  are  you 
...   to  him  ? 

J  EAN.  I'll  be  the  best  frien'  'at  ever  he  had  ;  for, 

0  dear  leddie,  I  wad  gie  my  bluid  to  help  him. 
Mary.  And  the  ....  the  child  ? 
Jean.  The  bairn  ? 
Mary.  Nothing  !     O  nothing !     I  am  in   trouble, 

and  I  know  not  what  I  say.  And  I  cannot  help 
you  ;  I  cannot  help  you  if  I  would.  He  is  not  here  ; 
and  I  believed  he  was  ;  and  ill  .  .  .  ill  ;  and  he  is 
not — he  is  ....  O,  I  think  I  shall  lose  my  mind  ! 

Jean.  Ay,  it's  unco  business. 

Mary.   His  father  is  dead  within  there  .  .  .  dead, 

1  tell  you  .   .   .  dead  ! 
Jean.  It's  mebbe  just  as  week 
Mary.   Well  ?     Well  ?     Has  it  come  to  this  ?     O 

Walter,  Walter  !  come  back  to  me,  or  I  shall  die. 
(Leslie  enters,  C.) 

Leslie.  Mary,  Mary  !  I  hoped  to  have  spared 
you  this.    (7<7  Jean.)    What — you?    Is  he  not  here  ? 

Jean.   I'm  aye  waitin'  on  him. 

Leslie.  What  has  become  of  him?  Is  he  mad? 
Where  is  he  ? 

Jean.  The  Lord  A'michty  kens,  Mr.  Leslie.  But 
I  maun  find  him  ;  I  maun  find  him. 

99 


DEACON     BR O DIE     OR 
V 

VIII  SCENE  III 

^c'  3  Mary,  Leslie 

MARY.   O  Walter,  Walter  !     What  does  it  mean  ? 

Leslie.  You  have  been  a  brave  girl  all  your  life, 
Mary ;  you  must  lean  on  me  .  .  .  you  must  trust  in 
me  .   .  .  and  be  a  brave  girl  till  the  end. 

Mary.  Who  is  she  ?  What  does  she  want  with 
him  ?  And  he  .  .  .  where  is  he  ?  Do  you  know 
that  my  father  is  dead,  and  the  Deacon  not  here  ? 
Where  has  he  gone  ?  He  maybe  dead,  too.  Father, 
brother  .  .  .  O  God,  it  is  more  than  I  can  bear ! 

Leslie.  Mary,  my  dear,  dear  girl  .  .  .  when  will 
you  be  my  wife  ? 

Mary.  0,do  not  speak  .  .  .  not  speak  ...  of  it 
to-night.     Not  to-night  !     O  not  to-night  ! 

Leslie.  I'know,  I  know,  dear  heart!  And  do  you 
think  that  I  whom  you  have  chosen,  I  whose  whole 
life  is  in  your  love — do  you  think  that  I  would  press 
you  now  if  there  were  not  good  cause  ? 

Mary.  Good  cause  !  Something  has  happened. 
Something  has  happened  ....  to  him  !  Walter  .  .  .  ! 
Is  he  .  .   .  .  dead  ? 

Leslie.  There  are  worse  things  in  the  world  than 
death.     There  is  ....  O  Mary,  he  is  your  brother  ! 

Mary.   What  ?  . .  .  .  Dishonour ! The  Deacon  i 

....  My  God  ! 

Leslie.  My  wife,  my  wife  ! 

ioo 


Sc. 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Mary.   No,   no !     Keep    away    from    me.      Don't         V 
touch  me.     I'm  not  fit  .    .  .   not  fit  to  be  near  you.        vill 
What  has  he  done  ?     I  am  his  sister.     Tell  me  the 
worst.     Tell  me  the  worst  at  once. 

Leslie.  That,  if  God  wills,  dear,  that  you  shall 
never  know.  Whatever  it  be,  think  that  I  knew  it 
all,  and  only  loved  you  better  ;  think  that  your  true 
husband  is  with  you,  and  you  are  not  to  bear  it  alone. 

Mary.  My  husband  ?  .  .  .  Never. 

Leslie.  Mary  .  .  .  ! 

Mary.  You  forget,  you  forget  what  I  am.  I  am 
his  sister.  I  owe  him  a  lifetime  of  happiness  and 
love  ;  I  owe  him  even  you.  And  whatever  his  fault, 
however  ruinous  his  disgrace,  he  is  my  brother — my 
own  brother — and  my  place  is  still  with  him. 

Leslie.  Your  place  is  with  me  —  is  with  your 
husband.  With  me,  with  me  ;  and  for  his  sake  most 
of  all.  What  can  you  do  for  him  alone  ?  how  can 
you  help  him  alone  ?  It  wrings  my  heart  to  think 
how  little.  But  together  is  different.  Together.  .  .  .  ! 
Join  my  strength,  my  will,  my  courage  to  your  own, 
and  together  we  may  save  him. 

Mary.  All  that  is  over.  Once  I  was  blessed 
among  women.  I  was  my  father's  daughter,  my 
brother  loved  me,  I  lived  to  be  your  wife.  Now  .  .  .  .  ! 
My  father  is  dead,  my  brother  is  shamed  ;  and  you 
.  .  .  .  O  how  could  I  face  the  world,  how  could  I 
endure  myself,  if  I  preferred  my  happiness  to  your 
honour? 

IOI 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

V  Leslie.   What  is  my  honour  but  your  happiness  ? 

Yjjj       In  what  else  does  it  consist?     Is  it  in  denying  me 

c      *,      my  heart  ?  is    it   in  visiting  another's  sin  upon  the 

"  °      innocent  ?     Could   I   do   that,   and  be  my  mother's 

son  ?     Could  I  do  that,  and  bear  my  father's  name  ? 

Could  I  do  that,  and  have  ever  been  found  worthy 

of  you  ? 

MARY.  It  is  my  duty  .  .  .  my  duty.  Why  will  you 
make  it  so  hard  for  me  ?     So  hard,  Walter,  so  hard  ! 

Leslie.  Do  I  pursue  you  only  for  your  good 
fortune,  your  beauty,  the  credit  of  your  friends,  your 
family's  good  name  ?  That  were  not  love,  and  I  love 
you.  I  love  you,  dearest,  I  love  you.  Friend,  father, 
brother,  husband  ...  I  must  be  all  these  to  you.  I 
am  a  man  who  can  love  well. 

Mary.  Silence  ...  in  pity  !  I  cannot  .  .  .  O,  I 
cannot  bear  it. 

Leslie.  And  say  it  was  I  who  had  fallen.  Say  I 
had  played  my  neck  and  lost  it  .  .  .  that  I  were 
pushed  by  the  law  to  the  last  limits  of  ignominy  and 
despair.  Whose  love  would  sanctify  my  jail  to  me  ? 
whose  pity  would  shine  upon  me  in  the  dock  ? 
whose  prayers  would  accompany  me  to  the  gallows  ? 
Whose  but  yours  ?  Yours  !  .  .  .  And  you  would 
entreat  me — me  ! — to  do  what  you  shrink  from  even 
in  thought,  what  you  would  die  ere  you  attempted 
in  deed  ! 

Mary.   Walter  ...  on  my  knees  .  . 
no  more  ! 

1 02 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Leslie.   My  wife  !  my  wife  !     Here  on  my  heart !  V 

It  is  I  that  must  kneel  ...   I  that  must  kneel  to  you.        y\h 

Mary.  Dearest !    .    .    .    Husband  !      You   forgive 
him  ?     O,  you  forgive  him  ? 

Leslie.  He  is  my  brother  now.     Let  me  take  you 
to  our  father.     Come. 


Sc.  3 


SCENE   IV 

After  a  pause,  Brodie,  through  the  window 

Brodie.  Saved  !  And  the  alibi  !  Man,  but  Sc.  4 
you've  been  near  it  this  time — near  the  rope,  near 
the  rope.  Ah  boy,  it  was  your  neck,  your  neck  you 
fought  for.  They  were  closing  hell-doors  upon  me, 
swift  as  the  wind,  when  I  slipped  through  and  shot 
for  heaven !  Saved  !  The  dog  that  sold  me,  I 
settled  him  ;  and  the  other  dogs  are  staunch.  Man, 
but  your  alibi  will  stand  !  Is  the  window  fast  ?  The 
neighbours  must  not  see  the  Deacon,  the  poor,  sick 
Deacon,  up  and  stirring  at  this  time  o'  night.  Ay, 
the  good  old  room  in  the  good,  cozy  old  house  .  .  . 
and  the  rat  a  dead  rat,  and  all  saved.  [He  lights  the 
candles.)  Your  hand  shakes,  sir?  Fie!  And  you 
saved,  and  you  snug  and  sick  in  your  bed,  and  it  but 
a  dead  rat  after  all  ?  {He  takes  off  his  hanger  and 
lays  it  on  the  table.)  Ay,  it  was  a  near  touch.  Will 
it  come  to  the  dock  ?  If  it  does  !  You've  a  tongue, 
and  you've  a  head,  and  you've  an  alibi  ;  and  your 
alibi  will  stand.     {He  takes  off  his  coat,  takes  out  the 


Sc.  4 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

V  dagger,  and  with  a  gesture  of  striking)  Home  !  He 
YIII  fell  without  a  sob.  '  He  breaketh  them  against  the 
bosses  of  his  buckler  !  '  [Lays  the  dagger  on  the 
table.)  Your  alibi  .  .  .  ah  Deacon,  that's  your  life  ! 
.  .  .  your  alibi,  your  alibi.  {He  takes  up  a  candle 
and  turns  towards  the  door.)  O  !  .  .  .  .  Open, 
open,  open  !     Judgment  of  God,  the  door  is  open  ! 

SCENE   V 
Brodie,  Mary 

Sc.  5         Brodie.  Did  you  open  the  door  ? 

Mary.  I  did. 

BRODIE.  You  ....  you  opened  the  door  ? 

Mary.   I  did  open  it. 

Brodie.  Were  you  .  .  .  alone  ? 

Mary.  I  was  not.  The  servant  was  with  me  ;  and 
the  doctor. 

Brodie.  O  .  .  .  the  servant  .  .  .  and  the  doctor. 
Very  true.  Then  it's  all  over  the  town  by  now.  The 
servant  and  the  doctor.  The  doctor  ?  What  doctor  ? 
Why  the  doctor  ? 

Mary.  My  father  is  dead.  O  Will,  where  have 
you  been  ? 

Brodie.  Your  father  is  dead.  O  yes !  He's 
dead,  is  he?  Dead.  Quite  right.  Quite  right.  .  .  . 
How  did  you  open  the  door?    It's  strange.     I  bolted  it. 

Mary.  We  could  not  help  it,  Will,  now  could  v/e? 
The  doctor  forced  it.     He  had  to,  had  he  not  ? 

104 


Sc.  5 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

BRODIE.  The  doctor  forced  it  ?  The  doctor  ?  Was  V 

he  here?     He  forced  it  ?     He  ?  yjjj 

Mary.  We  did  it  for  the  best  ;  it  was  I  who  did  it 
...  I,  your  own  sister.  And  O  Will,  my  Willie, 
where  have  you  been  ?  You  have  not  been  in  any 
harm,  any  danger  ? 

Brodie.  Danger?  O  my  young  lady,  you  have 
taken  care  of  that.  It's  not  danger  now,  it's  death. 
Death?  Ah!  Death!  Death!  Death!  {Clutching 
the  table.  Then,  recovering  as from  a  dream.)  Death  ? 
Did  you  say  my  father  was  dead  ?  My  father?  O 
my  God,  my  poor  old  father  !  Is  he  dead,  Mary  ? 
Have  I  lost  him  ?  is  he  gone  ?  O,  Mary  dear,  and  to 
think  of  where  his  son  was  ! 

Mary.  Dearest,  he  is  in  heaven. 

Brodie.  Did  he  suffer  ? 

Mary.  He  died  like  a  child.  Your  name  ...  it 
was  his  last. 

Brodie.  My  name  ?  Mine  ?  O  Mary,  if  he  had 
known  !  He  knows  now.  He  knows  ;  he  sees  us 
now  .  .  .  sees  me !  Ay,  and  sees  you,  left  how 
lonely  ! 

Mary.  Not  so,  dear  ;  not  while  you  live.  Wherever 
you  are,  I  shall  not  be  alone,  so  you  live. 

Brodie.  While  I  live  ?  I  ?  The  old  house  is 
ruined,  and  the  old  master  dead,  and  I !  .  .  .  O  Mary, 
try  and  believe  I  did  not  mean  that  it  should  come  to 
this  ;  try  and  believe  that  I  was  only  weak  at  first. 
At  first  ?     And  now  !     The  good  old  man  dead,  the 

105 


Sc.  5 


DEACON     RRODIE     OR 

V  kind  sister  ruined,  the  innocent  boy  fallen,  fallen  .  .  .  ! 
VIII  ^0L1  w^  ^e  9|uite  al°ne  ;  all  your  old  friends,  all  the 
old  faces,  gone  into  darkness.  The  night  {with  a 
gesture)  ....  it  waits  for  me.  You  will  be  quite 
alone. 

Mary.  The  night  ! 

Brodie.  Mary,  you  must  hear.  How  am  I  to  tell 
her,  and  the  old  man  just  dead  !  Mary,  I  was  the 
boy  you  knew  ;  I  loved  pleasure,  I  was  weak  ;  I 
have  fallen  .  .  .  low  .  .  .  lower  than  you  think.  A 
beginning  is  so  small  a  thing  !  I  never  dreamed  it 
would  come  to  this  ....  this  hideous  last  night. 

Mary.  Willie,  you  must  tell  me,  dear.  I  must  have 
the  truth  .  .  .  the  kind  truth  ...  at  once  .   .   .in  pity. 

Brodie.  Crime.     I  have  fallen.     Crime. 

Mary.  Crime  ? 

Brodie.  Don't  shrink  from  me.  Miserable  dog 
that  I  am,  selfish  hound  that  has  dragged  you  to  this 
misery  .  .  .  you  and  all  that  loved  him  .  .  .  think 
only  of  my  torments,  think  only  of  my  penitence, 
don't  shrink  from  me. 

Mary.  I  do  not  care  to  hear,  I  do  not  wish,  I  do 
not  mind  ;  you  are  my  brother.  What  do  I  care  ? 
How  can  I  help  you  ? 

Brodie.  Help  ?  help  me  ?  You  would  not  speak 
of  it,  not  wish  it,  if  you  knew.  My  kind  good  sister, 
my  little  playmate,  my  sweet  friend  !  Was  I  ever 
unkind  to  you  till  yesterday  ?  Not  openly  unkind  ? 
you'll  say  that  when  I  am  gone. 

1 06 


THE     DOUBLE    LIFE 

Mary.   If  you  have  done  wrong,  what  do  I  care  ?  V 

If  you  have  failed,  does  it  change  my  twenty  years  of       vill 
love  and  worship  ?     Never  !  c 

Brodie.  Yet  I  must  make  her  understand  .  .   .  .  ! 

Mary.  I  am  your  true  sister,  dear.  I  cannot  fail, 
I  will  never  leave  you,  I  will  never  blame  you.  Come  ! 
(Goes  to  embrace.) 

Brodie  {recoiling).  No,  don't  touch  me,  not  a 
finger,  not  that,  anything  but  that! 

Mary.  Willie,  Willie  ! 

Brodie  (taking  the  bloody  dagger  from  the  table). 
See,  do  you  understand  that  ? 

Mary.  Ah  !     What,  what  is  it ! 

Brodie.  Blood.     I  have  killed  a  man. 

Mary.  You  ?    .  .  .  . 

Brodie.  I  am  a  murderer  ;  I  was  a  thief  before. 
Your  brother  .  .   .   the  old  man's  only  son  ! 

Mary.  Walter,  Walter,  come  to  me  ! 

Brodie.  Now  you  see  that  I  must  die  ;  now  you 
see  that  I  stand  upon  the  grave's  edge,  all  my  lost  life 
behind  me,  like  a  horror  to  think  upon,  like  a  frenzy, 
like  a  dream  that  is  past.  And  you,  you  are  alone. 
Father,  brother,  they  are  gone  from  you  ;  one  to 
heaven,  one  .   .   .  .  ! 

Mary.  Hush,  dear,  hush  !  Kneel,  pray  ;  it  is  not 
too  late  to  repent.  Think  of  our  father,  dear  ;  repent. 
(She  weeps,  straining  to  his  bosom.)  O  Willie,  my 
darling  boy,  repent  and  join  us. 


107 


V 

VIII 

Sc.6 


DEACON     BRODIE     OR 

SCENE  VI 
To  these,  Lawson,  Leslie,  Jean 

Lawson.  She  kens  a',  thank  the  guid  Lord  ! 

Brodie  (to  Mary).  I  know  you  forgive  me  now  ; 
I  ask  no  more.  That  is  a  good  man.  (To  Leslie.) 
Will  you  take  her  from  my  hands  ?  (Leslie  takes 
Mary  J    Jean,  are  ye  here  to  see  the  end  ? 

Jean.  Eh  man,  can  ye  no  fly?  Could  ye  no  say 
that  it  was  me  ? 

Brodie.  No,  Jean,  this  is  where  it  ends.  Uncle, 
this  is  where  it  ends.  And  to  think  that  not  an  hour 
ago  I  still  had  hopes  !  Hopes  !  Ay,  not  an  hour  ago 
I  thought  of  a  new  life.  You  were  not  forgotten, 
Jean.  Leslie,  you  must  try  to  forgive  me  .  .  .  you, 
too  ! 

Leslie.     You  are  her  brother. 

Brodie  (to  Lawson).     And  you  ? 

Lawson.  My  name-child   and  my  sister's  bairn  ! 

Brodie.  You  won't  forget  Jean,  will  you  ?  nor  the 
child  ? 

Lawson.  That  I  will  not. 

Mary.  O  Willie,  nor  I. 

SCENE   VII 

To  these,  Hunt 

£JC   h.         Hunt.  The  game's  up,  Deacon.     I'll  trouble  you 
to  come  along  with  me. 
1 08 


Curtain. 


Sc.  7 


THE     DOUBLE     LIFE 

Brodie  (behi',  d  the  table).  One  moment,  officer  :  V 

I  have  a  word  to  say  before  witnesses  ere  I  go.  In  vill 
all  this  there  is  but  one  man  guilty  ;  and  that  man  is 
I.  None  else  has  sinned  ;  none  else  must  suffer. 
This  poor  woman  {pointing  to  Jean)  I  have  used  ; 
she  never  understood.  Mr.  Procurator- Fiscal,  that  is 
my  dying  confession.  (He  snatches  his  hanger  from 
the  table,  and  rushes  upon  Hunt,  who  parries,  and 
runs  him  through.  He  reels  across  the  stage  and 
falls.)     The  new  life  .   .  .  the  new  life  !     (He  dies.) 


109 


BEAU    AUSTIN 


DEDICATED 
WITH    ADMIRATION    AND    RESPECT 


TO 


GEORGE     MEREDITH 


Bournemouth : 

lit  October  1884 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

George  Frederick  Austin,  called  '  Beau  Austin,'      .        .  Mtat.  50 

John  FenwiCK,  of  Allonby  Shaw ,,26 

Anthony  Musgrave,  Cornet  in  the  Prince's  Own,       .        .  ,,       21 

Menteitii,  the  Beau's  Valet, ,,       55 

A  Royal  Duke.     (Dumb  show.) 

Dorothy  Musgrave,  Anthony's  Sister,        ....,,       25 

Miss  Evelina  Foster,  her  Aunt, ,,45 

Barbara  Ridley,  her  Maid, ,,20 

Visitors  to  the  Wells. 

The  Time  is  1820.     The  Scene  is  laid  at  Tunbridge  Wells. 
The  Action  occupies  a  space  of  ten  hours. 


HAY MARKET    THEATRE 
Monday,  November  $d,  1890 


CAST 


George  Frederick  Austin, 
John  Fenwick, 
Anthony  Musgrave, 
Menteith, 
A  Royal  Duke, 
Dorothy  Musgrave, 
Miss  Evelina  Foster, 
Barbara  Ridley,  . 


Mr.  Tree. 

Mr.  Fred.  Terry. 

Mr.  Edmund  Maurice. 

Mr.  Brookfield. 

Mr.  Robb  Harwood. 

Mrs.  Tree. 

Miss  Rose  Leclercq. 

Miss  Aylward. 


Visitors  to  the  Wells. 


PROLOGUE 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Tree  in  the  character  of 
Beau  Austin 

1  To  all  and  singular,'  as  Dryden  says, 

We  bring  a  fancy  of  those  Georgian  days, 

Whose  style  still  breathed  a  faint  and  fine  perfume 

Of  old-world  courtliness  and  old-world  bloom  : 

When  speech  was  elegant  and  talk  was  fit, 

For  slang  had  not  been  canonised  as  wit  ; 

When  manners  reigned,  when  breeding  had  the  wall, 

And  Women — yes  ! — were  ladies  first  of  all  ; 

When  Grace  was  conscious  of  its  gracefulness, 

And  man— though  Man  ! — was  not  ashamed  to  dress. 

A  brave  formality,  a  measured  ease, 

Were  his — and  her's — whose  effort  was  to  please. 

And  to  excel  in  pleasing  was  to  reign 

And,  if  you  sighed,  never  to  sigh  in  vain. 

But  then,  as  now — it  may  be,  something  more — 
Woman  and  man  were  human  to  the  core. 
The  hearts  that  throbbed  behind  that  quaint  attire 
Burned  with  a  plenitude  of  essential  (ire. 

115 


PROLOGUE 

They  too  could  risk,  they  also  could  rebel, 

They  could  love  wisely — they  could  love  too  well. 

In  that  great  duel  of  Sex,  that  ancient  strife 

Which  is  the  very  central  fact  of  life, 

They  could — and  did — engage  it  breath  for  breath, 

They  could — and  did — get  wounded  unto  death. 

As  at  all  times  since  time  for  us  began 

Woman  was  truly  woman,  man  was  man, 

And  joy  and  sorrow  were  as  much  at  home 

In  trifling  Tunbridge  as  in  mighty  Rome. 

Dead — dead  and  done  with  !     Swift  from  shine  to 

shade 
The  roaring  generations  flit  and  fade. 
To  this  one,  fading,  flitting,  like  the  rest, 
We  come  to  proffer — be  it  worst  or  best — 
A  sketch,  a  shadow,  of  one  brave  old  time  ; 
A  hint  of  what  it  might  have  held  sublime  ; 
A  dream,  an  idyll,  call  it  what  you  will, 
Of  man  still  Man,  and  woman — Woman  still ! 


116 


BEAU   AUSTIN 

Musical  Induction  :  '  Lascia  ch'iopianga  '  (Rinaldo). 

Handel. 

ACT    I 

The  Stage  represents  Miss  Foster's  apartments  at  the  Wells.    Doors, 

L.  and  C.  ;  a  window,  L.  C,  looking  on  the  street ;  a  table, 

R..  laid  for  breakfast. 

SCENE    I 
Barbara  ;  to  her  Miss  Foster  t 

Barbara  {out  of  window).  Mr.  Menteith  !     Mr.      Cc    t 
Menleith  !  Mr.  Menteith  !— Drat  his  old  head  !    Will 
nothing  make  him  hear  ? — Mr.  Menteith  ! 

MlSS  Foster  (entering).  Barbara !  this  is  in- 
credible :  after  all  my  lessons,  to  be  leaning  from  the 
window,  and  calling  (for  unless  my  ears  deceived  me, 
you  were  positively  calling !)  into  the  street. 

Barbara.  Well,  madam,  just  wait  until  you  hear 
who  it  was.     I  declare  it  was  much   more  for  Miss 

117 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Dorothy  and  yourself  than  for  me  ;  and  if  it  was  a 
<^c    r       little  countrified,  I  had  a  good  excuse. 

Miss  Foster.  Nonsense,  child  !  At  least,  who 
was  it  ? 

Barbara.  Miss  Evelina,  I  was  sure  you  would  ask. 
Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  I  was  looking  out  of 
window  at  the  barber's  opposite ■ 

Miss  Foster.  Of  which  I  entirely  disapprove 

Barbara.  And  first  there  came  out  two  of  the 
most  beautiful the  Royal  livery,  madam  ! 

MISS  Foster.  Of  course,  of  course  :  the  Duke  of 
York  arrived  last  night.  I  trust  you  did  not  hail  the 
Duke's  footmen  ? 

Barbara.  O  no,  madam,  it  was  after  they  were 
gone.  Then,  who  should  come  out — but  you'll  never 
guess  ! 

Miss  Foster.   I  shall  certainly  not  try. 

Barbara.  Mr.  Menteith  himself ! 

MlSS  Foster.  Why,  child,  I  never  heard  of  him. 

Barbara.  O  madam,  not  the  Beau's  own  gentle- 
man ? 

MlSS  Foster.  Mr.  Austin's  servant.  No  ?  Is  it 
possible  ?     By  that,  George  Austin  must  be  here. 

BARBARA.  No  doubt  of  that,  madam  ;  they're 
never  far  apart.  He  came  out  feeling  his  chin, 
madam,  so  ;  and  a  packet  of  letters  under  his  arm, 
so  ;  and  he  had  the  Beau's  own  walk  to  that  degree 
you  couldn't  tell  his  back  from  his  master's. 

MlSS  FOSTER.  My  dear  Barbara,  you  too  frequently 
118 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

forget  yourself.     A  young  woman  in  your  position  I 

must  beware  of  levity.  Sc.  I 

Barbara.  Madam,  I  know  it  ;  but  la,  what  are 
you  to  make  of  me  ?  Look  at  the  time  and  trouble 
dear  Miss  Dorothy  was  always  taking— she  that 
trained  up  everybody — and  see  what's  come  of  it  : 
Barbara  Ridley  I  was,  and  Barbara  Ridley  I  am  ;  and 
I  don't  do  with  fashionable  ways— I  can't  do  with 
them ;  and  indeed,  Miss  Evelina,  I  do  sometimes 
wish  we  were  all  back  again  on  Edenside,  and  Mr. 
Anthony  a  boy  again,  and  dear  Miss  Dorothy  her  old 
self,  galloping  the  bay  mare  along  the  moor,  and 
taking  care  of  all  of  us  as  if  she  was  our  mother, 
bless  her  heart  ! 

MiSS  Foster.  Miss  Dorothy  herself,  child  ?  Well, 
now  you  mention  it,  Tunbridge  of  late  has  scarcely 
seemed  to  suit  her  constitution.  She  falls  away,  has 
not  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog,  and  is  ridiculously  pale. 
Well,  now  Mr.  Austin  has  returned,  after  six  months 
of  infidelity  to  the  dear  Wells,  we  shall  all,  I  hope,  be 
brightened  up.     Has  the  mail  come  ? 

Barbara.  That  it  has,  madam,  and  the  sight  of 
Mr.  Menteith  put  it  clean  out  of  my  head.  {With 
letters.)  Four  for  you,  Miss  Evelina,  two  for  me,  and 
only  one  for  Miss  Dorothy.  Miss  Dorothy  seems 
quite  neglected,  does  she  not  ?  Six  months  ago,  it  was 
a  different  story. 

MiSS  Foster.  Well,  and  that's  true,  Barbara,  and 
I  had  not  remarked  it.     I  must  take  her  seriously  to 

119 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

task.  No  young  lady  in  her  position  should  neglect 
Sc#  j  her  correspondence.  {Opening  a  letter.)  Here's 
from  that  dear  ridiculous  boy,  the  Cornet,  announcing 
his  arrival  for  to-day. 

Barbara.  O  madam,  will  he  come  in  his  red  coat  ? 

Miss  Foster.  I  could  not  conceive  him  missine 
such  a  chance.  Youth,  child,  is  always  vain,  and  Mr. 
Anthony  is  unusually  young. 

Barbara.    La,  madam,  he  can't  help  that. 

Miss  Foster.  My  child,  I  am  not  so  sure.  Mr. 
Anthony  is  a  great  concern  to  me.  He  was  orphaned, 
to  be  sure,  at  ten  years  old  ;  and  ever  since  he  has 
been  only  as  it  were  his  sister's  son.  Dorothy  did 
everything  for  him  :  more  indeed  than  I  thought  quite 
ladylike,  but  I  suppose  I  begin  to  be  old-fashioned. 
See  how  she  worked  and  slaved — yes,  slaved! — for 
him  :  teaching  him  herself,  with  what  pains  and 
patience  she  only  could  reveal,  and  learning  that  she 
might  be  able  ;  and  see  what  he  is  now  :  a  gentleman, 
of  course,  but,  to  be  frank,  a  very  commonplace  one  : 
not  what  I  had  hoped  of  Dorothy's  brother  ;  not  what 
I  had  dreamed  of  the  heir  of  two  families — Musgrave 
and  Foster,  child!  Well,  he  may  now  meet  Mr. 
Austin.  He  requires  a  Mr.  Austin  to  embellish  and 
correct  his  manners.  [Opening  another  letter.)  Why, 
Barbara,  Mr.  John  Scrope  and  Miss  Kate  Dacre  are 
to  be  married ! 

Barbara.   La,  madam,  how  nice  ! 

Miss  Foster.  They  are  :  As  I'm  a  sinful  woman. 
1 20 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

And  when  will  you  be  married,  Barbara?  and  when  I 

dear  Dorothy?  I  hate  to  see  old  maids  a-making.  gc    j 

Barbara.  La,  Miss  Evelina,  there's  no  harm  in 
an  old  maid. 

Miss  Foster.  You  speak  like  a  fool,  child  :  sour 
grapes  are  all  very  well  but  it's  a  woman's  business 
to  be  married.  As  for  Dorothy,  she  is  five-and-twenty, 
and  she  breaks  my  heart.  Such  a  match,  too  !  Ten 
thousand  to  her  fortune,  the  best  blood  in  the  north, 
a  most  advantageous  person,  all  the  graces,  the  finest 
sensibility,  excellent  judgment,  the  Foster  walk  ;  and 
all  these  to  go  positively  a-begging  !  The  men  seem 
stricken  with  blindness.  Why,  child,  when  I  came  out 
(and  I  was  the  dear  girl's  image  !)  I  had  more  swains 

at  my  feet  in  a  fortnight  than  our  Dorothy  in O,  I 

cannot  fathom  it  :  it  must  be  the  girl's  own  fault. 

Barbara.  Why,  madam,  I  did  think  it  was  a  case 
with  Mr.  Austin. 

Miss  Foster.  With  Mr.  Austin  ?  why,  how  very 
rustic  !  The  attentions  of  a  gentleman  like  Mr. 
Austin,  child,  are  not  supposed  to  lead  to  matrimony. 
He  is  a  feature  of  society  :  an  ornament  :  a  person- 
age :  a  private  gentleman  by  birth,  but  a  kind  of  king 
by  habit  and  reputation.  What  woman  could  he 
marry  ?  Those  to  whom  he  might  properly  aspire  are 
all  too  far  below  him.  I  have  known  George  Austin 
too  long,  child,  and  I  understand  that  the  very  great- 
ness of  his  success  condemns  him  to  remain  un- 
married. 

121 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Barbara.  Sure,  madam,  that  must  be  tiresomefor 

Sc.  i    him- 

Miss  Foster.  Some  day,  child,  you  will  know 
better  than  to  think  so.  George  Austin,  as  I  conceive 
him,  and  as  he  is  regarded  by  the  world,  is  one  of  the 
triumphs  of  the  other  sex.  I  walked  my  first  minuet 
with  him:  I  wouldn't  tell  you  the  year,  child,  for 
worlds  ;  but  it  was  soon  after  his  famous  rencounter 
with  Colonel  Villiers.  He  had  killed  his  man,  he 
wore  pink  and  silver,  was  most  elegantly  pale,  and 
the  most  ravishing  creature  ! 

Barbara.  Well,  madam,  I  believe  that  :  he  is  the 
most  beautiful  gentleman  still. 

SCENE  II 

To  these,  Dorothy,  L 

Sc.  2  DOROTHY  [entering).      Good-morning,  aunt!     Is 

there  anything  for  me  ?     (She  goes  eagerly  to  table, 
and  looks  at  letters.) 

Miss  Foster.  Good-morrow,  niece.  Breakfast, 
Barbara. 

Dorothy  {with  letter  tmopened).  Nothing. 

Miss  Foster.  And  what  do  you  call  that,  my 
dear?  (Sitting.)   Is  John  Fenwick  nobody  ? 

Dorothy  (looking  at  letter).  From  John  ?  O  yes, 
so   it    is.     (Lays  down  letter  unopened,  and  sits  to 
breakfast,  Barbara  waiting.) 
122 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Miss  Foster  (to  Barbara,  with  plate).  Thanks, 
child  ;  now  you  may  give  me  some  tea.  Dolly,  I  gc  2 
must  insist  on  your  eating  a  good  breakfast  :  I  cannot 
away  with  your  pale  cheeks  and  that  Patience-on-a- 
Monument  kind  of  look.  (Toast,  Barbara.)  At 
Edenside  you  ate  and  drank  and  looked  like  Hebe. 
What  have  you  done  with  your  appetite  ? 

Dorothy.  I  don't  know,  aunt,  I'm  sure. 

Miss  Foster.  Then  consider,  please,  and  recover 
it  as  soon  as  you  can  :  to  a  young  lady  in  your  posi- 
tion a  good  appetite  is  an  attraction — almost  a  virtue. 
Do  you  know  that  your  brother  arrives  this  morning  ? 

Dorothy.  Dear  Anthony  !  Where  is  his  letter, 
Aunt  Evelina?  I  am  pleased  that  he  should  leave 
London  and  its  perils,  if  only  for  a  day. 

Miss  Foster.  My  dear,  there  are  moments  when 
you  positively  amaze  me.  (Barbara,  some  fldtt',  if  you 
please  !)  I  beg  you  not  to  be  a  prude.  All  women, 
of  course,  are  virtuous  ;  but  a  prude  is  something  I 
regard  with  abhorrence.  The  Cornet  is  seeing  life, 
which  is  exactly  what  he  wanted.  You  brought  him 
up  surprisingly  well ;  I  have  always  admired  you  for 
it ;  but  let  us  admit — as  women  of  the  world,  my  dear 
— it  was  no  upbringing  for  a  man.  You  and  that  fine 
solemn  fellow,  John  Fenwick,  led  a  life  that  was 
positively  no  better  than  the  Middle  Ages  ;  and 
between  the  two  of  you,  poor  Anthony  (who,  I  am 
sure,  was  a  most  passive  creature  !)  was  so  packed 
with  principle  and  admonition  that  I  vow  and  declare 

123 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

I  he  reminded  me  of  Issachar  stooping  between  his  two 

cc  «  burdens.  It  was  high  time  for  him  to  be  done  with 
your  apron-string,  my  dear  :  he  has  all  his  wild  oats 
to  sow  ;  and  that  is  an  occupation  which  it  is  unwise 
to  defer  too  long.  By  the  bye,  have  you  heard  the 
news  ?  The  Duke  of  York  has  done  us  a  service  for 
which  I  was  unprepared.  (More  tea,  Barbara !) 
George  Austin,  bringing  the  prince  in  his  train,  is 
with  us  once  more. 

DOROTHY.  I  knew  he  was  coming. 

Miss  Foster.  You  knew,  child  ?  and  did  not  tell  ? 
You  are  a  public  criminal. 

DOROTHY.  I  did  not  think  it  mattered,  Aunt  Evelina. 

Miss  Foster.  O  do  not  make-believe.  I  am  in 
love  with  him  myself,  and  have  been  any  time  since 
Nelson  and  the  Nile.  As  for  you,  Dolly,  since  he 
went  away  six  months  ago,  you  have  been  positively 
in  the  megrims.  I  shall  date  your  loss  of  appetite 
from  George  Austin's  vanishing.  No,  my  dear,  our 
family  require  entertainment  :  we  must  have  wit 
about  us,  and  beauty,  and  the  bcl  air. 

Barbara.  Well,  Miss  Dorothy,  perhaps  it's  out  of 
my  place  :  but  I  do  hope  Mr.  Austin  will  come  :  I 
should  love  to  have  him  see  my  necklace  on. 

Dorothy.  Necklace?  what  necklace?  Did  he 
give  you  a  necklace  ? 

Barbara.  Yes,   indeed,   Miss,  that  he  did  :  the 
very   same   day   he    drove    you    in    his    curricle    to 
Penshurst.     You  remember,  Miss,  I  couldn't  go. 
124 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Dorothy.   I  remember.  I 

Miss  Foster.  And  so  do  I.   I  had  a  touch  of  .  .  .     gc  2 
Foster  in  the  blood  :  the  family  gout,  dears  !   .   .  . 
And  you,  you  ungrateful  nymph,  had  him  a  whole 
dav  to  vourself,  and  not  a  word  to  tell  me  when  vou 
returned. 

Dorothy.  I  remember.  {Rising.)  Is  that  the 
necklace,  Barbara  ?     It  does  not  suit  you.  Give  it  me. 

BARBARA.  La,  Miss  Dorothy,  I  wouldn't  for  the 
world. 

Dorothy.  Come,  give  it  me.  I  want  it.  Thank 
you  :   you  shall  have  my  birthday  pearls  instead. 

MiSS  Foster.  Why,  Dolly,  I  believe  you're  jealous 
of  the  maid.  Foster,  Foster  :  always  a  Fester  trick 
to  wear  the  willow  in  anger. 

DOROTHY.  I  do  not  think,  madam,  that  I  am  of  a 
jealous  habit. 

Miss  Foster.  O,  the  personage  is  your  excuse  ! 
And  I  can  tell  you,  child,  that  when  George  Austin 
was  playing  Florizel  to  the  Duchess's  Perdita,  all 
the  maids  in  England  fell  a  prey  to  green-eyed 
melancholy.  It  was  the  ton,  you  see  :  not  to  pine 
for  that  Sylvander  was  to  resign  from  good  society. 

DOROTHY.  Aunt  Evelina,  stop  ;  I  cannot  endure 
to  hear  you.  What  is  he  after  all  but  just  Beau 
Austin  ?  What  has  he  done — with  half  a  century 
of  good  health,  what  has  he  done  that  is  either 
memorable  or  worthy  ?  Diced  and  danced  and  set 
fashions  ;  vanquished  in  a  drawing-room,  fought  for 

i-5 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

a  word  ;  what  else  ?  As  if  these  were  the  meaning 
Sc  2  °^  ^c  '  ^°  not  ma^e  me  think  so  poorly  of  all  of 
us  women.  Sure,  we  can  rise  to  admire  a  better  kind 
of  man  than  Mr.  Austin.  We  are  not  all  to  be  snared 
with  the  eye,  dear  aunt  ;  and  those  that  are — O  !  I 
know  not  whether  I  more  hate  or  pity  them. 

MlSS  Foster.  You  will  give  me  leave,  my  niece  : 
such  talk  is  neither  becoming  in  a  young  lady  nor 
creditable  to  your  understanding.  The  world  was 
made  a  great  while  before  Miss  Dorothy  Musgrave  ; 
and  you  will  do  much  better  to  ripen  your  opinions, 
and  in  the  meantime  read  your  letter,  which  1 
perceive  you  have  not  opened.  (Dorothy  opens 
and  reads  letter.)  Barbara,  child,  you  should  not 
listen  at  table. 

Barbara.  Sure,  madam,  I  hope  I  know  my  place. 

Miss  Foster.  Then  do  not  do  it  again. 

DOROTHY.  Poor  John  Fenwick  !  he  coming  here! 

MlSS  Foster.  Well,  and  why  not  ?  Dorothy,  my 
darling  child,  you  give  me  pain.  You  never  had  but 
one  chance,  let  me  tell  you  pointedly  :  and  that  was 
John  Fenwick.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  not  let  my 
vanity  so  blind  me.     This  is  not  the  way  to  marry. 

DOROTHY.   Dear  aunt,  I  shall  never  marry. 

Miss  Foster.  A  fiddlestick's  end !  every  one 
must  marry.     {Rising.)     Are  you  for  the  Pantiles  ? 

Dorothy.   Not  to-day,  dear. 

Miss    Foster.     Well,    well!     have    your    wish, 
Dolorosa.     Barbara,  attend  and  dress  me. 
126 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

SCENE    III  I 

Dorothy  ^c-  3 

DOROTHY.  How  she  tortures  me,  poor  aunt,  my 
poor  blind  aunt  ;  and  I — I  could  break  her  heart 
with  a  word.  That  she  should  see  nothing,  know 
nothing — there's  where  it  kills.  O,  it  is  more  than 
I  can  bear  .  .  .  and  yet,  how  much  less  than  I 
deserve!  Mad  girl,  of  what  do  I  complain?  that 
this  dear  innocent  woman  still  believes  me  good,  still 
pierces  me  to  the  soul  with  trustfulness.  Alas,  and 
were  it  otherwise,  were  her  dear  eyes  opened  to  the 
truth,  what  were  left  me  but  death  ? — He,  too — she 
must  still  be  praising  him,  and  every  word  is  a  lash 
upon  my  conscience.  If  I  could  die  of  my  secret :  if 
I  could  cease — but  one  moment  cease — this  living 
lie  ;  if  I  could  sleep  and  forget  and  be  at  rest ! 
— Poor  John  !  {Reading  the  letter)  he  at  least  is 
guiltless  ;  and  yet  for  my  fault  he  too  must  suffer, 
he  too  must  bear  part  in  my  shame.  Poor  John 
Fenwick  !  Has  he  come  back  with  the  old  story  : 
with  what  might  have  been,  perhaps,  had  we  stayed 
by  Edenside  ?  Eden  ?  yes,  my  Eden,  from  which 
I  fell.  O  my  old  north  country,  my  old  river 
— the  river  of  my  innocence,  the  old  country  of  my 
hopes — how  could  I  endure  to  look  on  you  now? 
And  how  to  meet  John  ? — John,  with  the  old  love  on 
his  lips,  the  old,  honest,  innocent,  faithful  heart! 
There  was  a  Dorothy  once  who  was  not  unfit  to  ride 

127 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

1  with  him,  her   heart  as  light  as  his,  her  life  as   deal- 

er   ~      as  the  bright  rivers  we  forded  ;    he  called  her  his 
*  Diana,  he   crowned   her  so  with   rowan.     Where  is 

that  Dorothy  now  ?  that  Diana  ?  she  that  was  every- 
thing to  John  ?  For  O,  I  did  him  good  :  I  know  1 
did  him  good  ;  I  will  still  believe  1  did  him  good  ;  I 
made  him  honest  and  kind  and  a  true  man  ;  alas, 
and  could  not  guide  myself  !  And  now,  how  will  he 
despise  me  !  For  he  shall  know  ;  if  I  die,  he  shall 
know  all  ;  I  could  not  live,  and  not  be  true  with  him. 
(She  takes  out  the  necklace  and  looks  at  it.)  That 
he  should  have  bought  me  from  my  maid  !  George, 
George,  that  you  should  have  stooped  to  this ! 
Basely  as  you  have  used  me,  this  is  the  basest. 
Perish  the  witness  !  (She  treads  the  trinket  under 
foot.)  Break,  break  like  my  heart,  break  like  my 
hopes,  perish  like  my  good  name  ! 

SCENE    IV 
To  her,  Fenwick:,   C. 

Fenwick  (after  a  pause).  Is  this  how  you  receive 
me,  Dorothy  ?  Am  I  not  welcome  ? — Shall  I  go 
then  ? 

DOROTHY  (running  to  him,  with  hands  out- 
stretched). O  no,  John,  not  for  me.  (Turning,  and 
pointing  to  the  necklace.)  But  you  find  me  changed. 

Fenwick  (with  a  movement  towards  the  necklace). 
This? 
128 


Sc.  4 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

DOROTHY.  No,  no,  let  it  lie.     That  is  a  trinket —  I 

broken.     But  the  old  Dorothy  is  dead.  gc    . 

Fenwick.  Dead,  dear  ?     Not  to  me. 

Dorothy.  Dead  to  you — dead  to  all  men. 

FENWICK.  Dorothy,  I  loved  you  as  a  boy.  There 
is  not  a  meadow  on  Edenside  but  is  dear  to  me  for 
your  sake,  not  a  cottage  but  recalls  your  goodness, 
not  a  rock  nor  a  tree  but  brings  back  something  of 
the  best  and  brightest  youth  man  ever  had.  You 
were  my  teacher  and  my  queen  ;  I  walked  with  you, 
I  talked  with  you,  I  rode  with  you  ;  I  lived  in  your 
shadow ;  I  saw  with  your  eyes.  You  will  never 
know,  dear  Dorothy,  what  you  were  to  the  dull  boy 
you  bore  with  ;  you  will  never  know  with  what 
romance  you  filled  my  life,  with  what  devotion,  with 
what  tenderness  and  honour.  At  night  I  lay  awake 
and  worshipped  you  ;  in  my  dreams  I  saw  you,  and 
you  loved  me  ;  and  you  remember,  when  we  told 
each  other  stories — you  have  not  forgotten,  dearest — ■ 
that  Princess  Hawthorn  that  was  still  the  heroine  of 
mine  :  who  was  she  ?  I  was  not  bold  enough  to  tell, 
but  she  was  you !  You,  my  virgin  huntress,  my 
Diana,  my  queen. 

Dorothy.  O  silence,  silence— pity  ! 

FENWICK.  No,  dear  ;  neither  for  your  sake  nor 
mine  will  I  be  silenced.  I  have  begun  ;  1  must  go 
on  and  finish,  and  put  fortune  to  the  touch.  It  was 
from  you  I  learned  honour,  duty,  piety,  and  love.  I 
am  as  you  made  me,  and  I   exist  but  to  reverence 

I2g 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

I  and  serve  you.     Why  else  have    I    come  here,  the 

Sc.  4  ^ngth  of  England,  my  heart  burning  higher  every 
mile,  my  very  horse  a  clog  to  me  ?  why,  but  to  ask 
you  for  my  wife  ?     Dorothy,  you  will  not  deny  me. 

Dorothy.  You    have    not  asked  me    about    this 
broken  trinket  ? 

FENWICK.   Why  should  I  ask  ?      I  love  you. 

Dorothy.  Yet  I  must  tell  you.     Sit  down.     {She 
picks   tip   the    necklace,    and  stands   looking   at   it. 
Then,    breaking   down.)      O   John,   John,    it's   long 
since  I  left  home. 

Fenwick.   Too  long,  dear  love.     The  very  trees 
will  welcome  you. 

DOROTHY.  Ay,  John,  but  I  no  longer  love  you. 
The  old  Dorothy  is  dead,  God  pardon  her  ! 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  who  is  the  man  ? 

Dorothy.  O  poor  Dorothy  !  O  poor  dead 
Dorothy  !  John,  you  found  me  breaking  this  :  me, 
your  Diana  of  the  Fells,  the  Diana  of  your  old 
romance  by  Edenside.  Diana— O  what  a  name  for 
me  !  Do  you  see  this  trinket  ?  It  is  a  chapter  in  my 
life.  A  chapter,  do  I  say  ?  my  whole  life,  for  there 
is  none  to  follow.  John,  you  must  bear  with  me, 
you  must  help  me.  I  have  that  to  tell— there  is  a 
secret— I  have  a  secret,  John— O,  for  God's  sake, 
understand.  That  Diana  you  revered  —  O  John, 
John,  you  must  never  speak  of  love  to  me  again. 

Fenwick.   What  do  you  say  ?     How  dare  you  ? 

Dorothy.  John,  it  is    the   truth.     Your   Diana, 
130 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

even  she,  she  whom  you  so  believed  in,  she  who  so 
believed  in  herself,  came  out  into  the  world  only  to  c„  . 
be  broken.  I  met,  here  at  the  Wells,  a  man — why 
should  I  tell  you  his  name  ?  I  met  him,  and  I  loved 
him.  My  heart  was  all  his  own  ;  yet  he  was  not 
content  with  that  :  he  must  intrigue  to  catch  me,  he 
must  bribe  my  maid  with  this.  (  Throws  the  necklace 
on  the  table.)  Did  he  love  me  ?  Well,  John,  he  said 
he  did  ;  and  be  it  so  !  He  loved,  he  betrayed,  and 
he  has  left  me. 

Fenwick.  Betrayed  ? 

Dorothv.  Ay,  even  so  ;  I  was  betrayed.  The 
fault  was  mine  that  I  forgot  our  innocent  youth,  and 
your  honest  love. 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  O  Dorothy  ! 

Dorothy.  Yours  is  the  pain  ;  but,  O  John,  think 
it  is  for  your  good.  Think  in  England  how  many 
true  maids  may  be  waiting  for  your  love,  how  many 
that  can  bring  you  a  whole  heart,  and  be  a  noble 
mother  to  your  children,  while  your  poor  Diana,  at 
the  first  touch,  has  pro\  ed  all  frailty.  Go,  go  and  be 
happy,  and  let  me  be  patient.     I  have  sinned. 

Fenwick.  By  God,  I'll  have  his  blood. 

Dorothy.  Stop  !  I  love  him.  {Between  Fenwick 
and  door,  C.) 

Fenwick.  What  do  I  care  ?  I  loved  you  too. 
Little  he  thought  of  that,  little  either  of  you  thought 
of  that.     His  blood— I'll  have  his  blood  ! 

Dorothy.  You  shall  never  know  his  name. 

131 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

I  Fenwick.    Know    it  ?     Do    you    think    I    cannot 

C~  .  guess?  Do  you  think  I  had  not  heard  he  followed 
you.  Do  you  think  I  had  not  suffered — O  suffered  ! 
George  Austin  is  the  man.     Dear  shall  he  pay  it ! 

Dorothy  (at  his  feet).  Pity  me  ;  spare  me,  spare 
your  Dorothy  !     I  love  him — love  him — love  him  ! 

Fenwick.  Dorothy,  you  have  robbed  me  of  my 
happiness,  and  now  you  would  rob  me  of  my  revenge. 

DOROTHY.  I  know  it  ;  and  shall  I  ask,  and  you 
not  grant  ? 

Fenwick  (raising  her).  No,  Dorothy,  you  shall 
ask  nothing,  nothing  in  vain  from  me.  You  ask  his 
life  ;  I  give  it  you,  as  I  would  give  you  my  soul  ;  as  I 
would  give  you  my  life,  if  I  had  any  left.  My  life  is 
done  ;  you  have  taken  it.  Not  a  hope,  not  an  end  ; 
not  even  revenge.  (He sits.)  Dorothy,  you  see  your 
work. 

Dorothy.  O  God,  forgive  me. 

Fenwick.     Ay,  Dorothy,  He  will,  as  I  do. 

Dorothy.  As  you  do  ?    Do  you  forgive  me,  John  ? 

Fenwick.  Ay,  more  than  that,  poor  soul.  I  said 
my  life  was  done,  I  was  wrong  ;  I  have  still  a  duty. 
It  is  not  in  vain  you  taught  me  ;  I  shall  still  prove  to 
you  that  it  was  not  in  vain.  You  shall  soon  find  that 
I  am  no  backward  friend.     Farewell. 


132 


Musical  Induction  :   '  The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill. ' 

ACT  II 

The  Stage  represents    George  Austin's  dressing-room.     Elaborate 

toilet-table,  R.,  with  chair  ;  a  cheval  glass  so  arranged  as  to  corre- 

cpond  iviih  glass  on  table.    Breakfast  table,  L.,  front.    Door,  L. 

The  Beau  is  discovered  at  table,  in  dressing-goivn,  trifling 

with  correspondence.     Menteith  is  frothing  chocolate. 

SCENE   I 
Austin,   Menteith  .. 

Menteith.  At  the  barber's,  Mr.  George,  I  had  the      Sc.  I 
pleasure  of  meeting  two  of  the  Dook's  gentlemen. 

Austin.  Well,  and  was  his  Royal  Highness  satis- 
fied with  his  quarters  ? 

Menteith.  Quite  so,  Mr.  George.  Delighted,  I 
believe. 

Austin.  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it.  I  wish  I  could 
say  I  was  as  pleased  with  my  journey,  Menteith. 
This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  came  to  the  Wells  in 
another  person's  carriage  ;  Duke  or  not,  it  shall  be 
the  last,  Menteith. 

133 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

II  Menteith.  Ah,  Mr.    George,   no   wonder.     And 

Cc  x  how  many  times  have  we  made  that  journey  back 
and  forth  ? 

Austin.  Enough  to  make  us  older  than  we  look. 

Menteith.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  George,  you  do  wear 
well. 

Austin.    We  wear  well,  Menteith. 

Menteith.  I  hear,  Mr.  George,  that  Miss  Mus- 
grave  is  of  the  company. 

Austin.  Is  she  so  ?     Well,  well !  well,  well ! 

Menteith.  I've  not  seen  the  young  lady  myself,Mr. 
George  ;  but  the  barber  tells  me  she's  looking  poorly. 

Austin.  Poorly  ? 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George,  poorly  was  his  word. 

Austin.  Well,  Menteith,  I  am  truly  sorry.  She 
is  not  the  first. 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George.  {A  bell.  Men- 
teith goes  out,  and  re-enters  with  card.) 

Austin  {with  card).  Whom  have  we  here  ?  An- 
thony Musgrave  ? 

Menteith.  A  fine  young  man,  Mr.  George  ;  and 
with  a  look  of  the  young  lady,  but  not  so  gentlemanly. 

Austin.  You  have  an  eye,  you  have  an  eye.  Let 
him  in. 

SCENE   II 

Austin,  Menteith,  Anthony 

Austin.  I  am  charmed  to  have  this  opportunity, 
Mr.  Musgrave.    You  belong  to  my  old  corps,  I  think  ? 
134 


Sc.  2 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

And  how  does  my  good  friend,  Sir  Frederick  ?  I  had 

his  line  ;  but  like  all  my  old  comrades,  he  thinks  last      C„    2 

about  himself,  and  gives  me  not  of  his  news. 

ANTHONY.  I  protest,  sir,  this  is  a  very  proud 
moment.  Your  name  is  still  remembered  in  the 
regiment.  (Austin  bows.)  The  Colonel — he  keeps 
his  health,  sir,  considering  his  age  (AUSTIN  bows 
again,  and  looks  at  MENTEITH) — tells  us  young  men 
you  were  a  devil  of  a  fellow  in  your  time. 

Austin.  I  believe  I  was — in  my  time.  Menteith, 
give  Mr.  Musgrave  a  dish  of  chocolate.  So,  sir,  we 
see  you  at  the  Wells. 

Anthony.  I  have  but  just  alighted.  I  had  but  one 
thought,  sir  :  to  pay  my  respects  to  Mr.  Austin.  I 
have  not  yet  kissed  my  aunt  and  sister. 

Austin.  In  my  time — to  which  you  refer — the 
ladies  had  come  first. 

Anthony.  The  women?  I  take  you,  sir.  But 
then  you  see,  a  man's  relatives  don't  count.  And 
besides,  Mr.  Austin,  between  men  of  the  world,  I  am 
fairly  running  away  from  the  sex  :  I  am  positively  in 
flight.  Little  Hortense  of  the  Opera  ;  you  know  ;  she 
sent  her  love  to  you.  She's  mad  about  me,  I  think. 
You  never  saw  a  creature  so  fond. 

Austin.  Well,  well,  child  !  you  are  better  here.  In 
my  time — to  which  you  have  referred — I  knew  the 
lady.     Does  she  wear  well  ? 

ANTHONY.   I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ! 

Austin.  No  offence,  child,  no  offence.     She  was  a 

135 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

very  lively  creature.     But  you  neglect  your  chocolate, 
Cc    0      1  see  ? 

ANTHONY.  We  don't  patronise  it,  Mr.  Austin  ;  we 
haven't  for  some  years  :  the  service  has  quite  changed 
since  your  time.     You'd  be  surprised. 

Austin.  Doubtless.     I  am. 

Anthony.  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  and  Jack  Bosbury 
of  the  Fifty-Second 

Austin.  The  Hampshire  Bosburys  ? 

Anthony.  I  do  not  know  exactly,  sir.  I  believe 
he  is  related. 

AUSTIN.  Or  perhaps— I  remember  a  Mr.  Bosbury, 
a  cutter  of  coats.  I  have  the  vanity  to  believe  I 
formed  his  business. 

Anthony.  I — I  hope  not,  sir.  But  as  I  was  saying, 
I  and  this  Jack  Bosbury,  and  the  Brummagem  Bantam 
— a  very  pretty  light-weight,  sir — drank  seven  bottles 
of  Burgundy  to  the  three  of  us  inside  the  eighty 
minutes.  Jack,  sir,  was  a  little  cut  ;  but  me  and  the 
Bantam  went  out  and  finished  the  evening  on  hot  gin. 
Life,  sir,  life!  Tom  Cribb  was  with  us.  He  spoke 
of  you,  too,  Tom  did  :  said  you'd  given  him  a  wrinkle 
for  his  second  fight  with  the  black  man.  No,  sir,  I 
assure  you,  you're  not  forgotten. 

AUSTIN  {botus).  I  am  pleased  to  learn  it.  In  my 
time,  I  had  an  esteem  for  Mr.  Cribb. 

Anthony.  O  come,  sir  !  but  your  time  cannot  be 
said  to  be  over. 

Austin.  Menteith,  you  hear  ? 
136 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George.  II 

Anthony.   The  Colonel  told  me  that  you  liked  to      g^   2 
shake    an   elbow.     Your   big   main,    sir,  with  Lord 
Wensleydale,  is  often  talked  about.     I  hope  I  may 
have  the  occasion  to  sit  down  with  you.   I  shall  count 
it  an  honour,  I  assure  you. 

Austin  .  But  would  your  aunt,  my  very  good  friend, 
approve  ? 

Anthony.  Why,  sir,  you  do  not  suppose  I  am  in 
leading-strings  ? 

Austin.  You  forget,  child  :  a  family  must  hang 
together.  When  I  was  young — in  my  time — I  was 
alone  ;  and  what  I  did  concerned  myself.  But  a 
youth  who  has — as  I  think  you  have — a  family  of 
ladies  to  protect,  must  watch  his  honour,  child,  and 
preserve  his  fortune.  .  .  .  You  have  no  commands 
from  Sir  Frederick  ? 

Anthony.  None,  sir,  none. 

Austin.  Shall  I  find  you  this  noon  upon  the 
Pantiles?  .  .  .  I  shall  be  charmed.  Commend  me  to 
your  aunt  and  your  fair  sister.     Menteith  ? 

Menteith.  Yes,  Mr.  George.  {Shows  Anthony 
out.) 

SCENE  III 

Austin,  Menteith,  returning 
Austin.  Was  I  ever  like  that,  Menteith  ? 
Menteith.  No,  Mr.  George,  you  was   always  a 
gentleman. 
Austin.  Youth,  my  good  fellow,  youth. 

137 


Sc.  3 


3 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

II  ]\Iknteith.   Quite  so,  Mr.  George. 

Cc   «  Austin.  Well,    Menteith,    we   cannot  make   nor 

mend.  We  cannot  play  the  jockey  with  Time.  Age 
is  the  test  :  of  wine,  Menteith,  and  men. 

Menteith.  Me  and  you  and  the  old  Hermitage, 
Mr.  George,  he-he  ! 

Austin.  And  the  best  of  these,  the  Hermitage. 
But  come  :  we  lose  our  day.  Help  me  off  with  this. 
(Menteith  takes  off  Austin's  dressing-gown ; 
Austin  passes  R.  to  dressing-table,  and  takes  up 
first  cravat?) 

Austin.  Will  the  hair  do,  Menteith  ? 

Menteith.  Never  saw  it  lay  better,  Mr.  George. 
(Austin  proceeds  to  wind  first  cravat.  A  bell :  exit 
Menteith.  Austin  drops  first  cravat  in  basket  and 
takes  second.) 

AUSTIN  (winding  and  singing) — 

'  I'd  crowns  resign 
To  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill ! ' 

(Second  cravat  a  failure.  Re-enter  Menteith  with 
card.)  Fenwick  ?  of  Allonby  Shaw  ?  A  good  family, 
Menteith,  but  I  don't  know  the  gentleman.  (Lays 
down  card,  and  takes  up  third  cravat.)  Send  him 
away  with  everyr  consideration. 

Menteith.     To  be  sure,  Mr.  George.     (He  goes 
out.     Third  cravat  a  success.     Re-enter  Menteith.) 
He  says,  Mr.    George,  that  he  has  an  errand  from 
Miss  Musgrave. 
138 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Austin  {with  waistcoat).  Show  him  in,  Menteith, 
at  once.     {Singing  and fitting  waistcoat  at  glass) —        C~    -, 

'  I'd  crowns  resign 
To  call  her  mine. 
Sweet  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill  ! ' 

SCENE    IV 
Austin,  R.     To  him  Menteith  and  Fenwick 

Menteith    {announcing),     Mr.     Fenwick,     Mr.      gc    , 
George. 

Austin.  At  the  name  of  Miss  Musgrave,  my  doors 
fly  always  open. 

Fenwick.  I  believe,  sir,  you  are  acquainted  with 
my  cousin,  Richard  Gaunt  ? 

Austin.  The  county  member  ?  An  old  and  good 
friend.  But  you  need  not  go  so  far  afield  :  I  know 
your  good  house  of  Allonby  Shaw  since  the  days  of 
the  Black  Knight.  We  are,  in  fact,  and  at  a  very 
royal  distance,  cousins. 

Fenwick.  I  desired,  sir,  from  the  nature  of  my  busi- 
ness, that  you  should  recognise  me  for  a  gentleman. 

Austin.  The  preliminary,  sir,  is  somewhat  grave. 

Fenwick.  My  business  is  both  grave  and  delicate. 

Austin.  Menteith,  my  good  fellow.  {Exit  Men- 
teith.) Mr.  Fenwick,  honour  me  so  far  as  to  be 
seated.     {They  sit.)     I  await  your  pleasure. 

Fenwick.  Briefly,  sir,  I  am  come,  not  without 
hope,  to  appeal  to  your  good  heart. 

139 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

II  Austin.   From  Miss  Musgrave  ? 

C^£    «  Fenwick.  No,  sir,  I   abused  her  name,  and    am 

here  upon  my  own  authority.     Upon  me  the  con- 
sequence. 

Austin.  Proceed. 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  Dorothy  Musgrave  is  the 
oldest  and  dearest  of  my  friends,  is  the  lady  whom 
for  ten  years  it  has  been  my  hope  to  make  my  wife. 
She  has  shown  me  reason  to  discard  that  hope  for 
another  :   that  I  may  call  her  Mrs.  Austin. 

Austin.  In  the  best  interests  of  the  lady  (rising) 
I  question  if  you  have  been  well  inspired.  You  are 
aware,  sir,  that  from  such  interference  there  is  but 
one  issue  :   to  whom  shall  I  address  my  friend  ? 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  I  am  here  to  throw  myself 
upon  your  mercy.  Strange  as  my  errand  is,  it  will 
seem  yet  more  strange  to  you  that  I  came  prepared 
to  accept  at  your  hands  any  extremity  of  dishonour 
and  not  fight.  The  lady  whom  it  is  my  boast  to  serve 
has  honoured  me  with  her  commands.  These  are  my 
law,  and  by  these  your  life  is  sacred. 

Austin.  Then,  sir  (with  //is  liana J  upon  the  bell), 
this  conversation  becomes  impossible.  You  have  me 
at  too  gross  a  disadvantage  ;  and,  as  you  are  a  gentle- 
man and  respect  another,  I  would  suggest  that  you 
retire. 

Fenwick.  Sir,  you  speak  of  disadvantage  ;  think 
of  mine.     All  my  life  long,  with  all  the  forces   of  my 
nature,  I  have  loved  this  lady.     I  came  here  to  im- 
140 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

plore  her  to  be  my  wife,  to  be  my  queen  ;  my  saint 
she  had  been  always  !     She  was  too  noble  to  deceive      c~    . 
me.     She  told  me  what  you  know.    I  will  not  conceal  ' 

that  my  first  mood  was  of  anger  :  I  would  have 
killed  you  like  a  dog.  But,  Mr.  Austin — bear  with  me 
awhile — I,  on  the  threshold  of  my  life,  who  have 
made  no  figure  in  the  world,  nor  ever  shall  now,  who 
had  but  one  treasure,  and  have  lost  it — if  I,  abandon- 
ing revenge,  trampling  upon  jealousy,  can  supplicate 
you  to  complete  my  misfortune — O  Mr.  Austin  !  you 
who  have  lived,  you  whose  gallantry  is  beyond  the 
insolence  of  a  suspicion,  you  who  are  a  man  crowned 
and  acclaimed,  who  are  loved,  and  loved  by  such  a 
woman — you  who  excel  me  in  every  point  of  advan- 
tage, will  you  suffer  me  to  surpass  you  in  generosity  ? 

Austin.  You  speak  from  the  heart.  {Sits.)  What 
do  you  want  with  me  ? 

FENWICK.    Marry  her. 

Austin.  Mr.  Fenwick,  I  am  the  older  man.  I 
have  seen  much  of  life,  much  of  society,  much  of  love. 
When  I  was  young,  it  was  expected  of  a  gentleman 
to  be  ready  with  his  hat  to  a  lady,  ready  with  his 
sword  to  a  man  ;  to  honour  his  word  and  his  king  ; 
to  be  courteous  with  his  equals,  generous  to  his 
dependants,  helpful  and  trusty  in  friendship.  But  it 
was  not  asked  of  us  to  be  quixotic.  If  I  had  married 
every  lady  by  whom  it  is  my  fortune — not  my  merit — 
to  have  been  distinguished,  the  Wells  would  scarce 
be  spacious  enough  for  my  establishment.     You  see, 

141 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

sir,  that  while  I  respect  your  emotion,  I  am  myself 
Sc  A  con(Juctccl  by  experience.  And  besides,  Mr.  Fenwick, 
is  not  love  a  warfare  ?  has  it  not  rules  ?  have  not  our 
fair  antagonists  their  tactics,  their  weapons,  their 
place  of  arms  ?  and  is  there  not  a  touch  of — pardon 
me  the  word  !  of  silliness  in  one  who,  having  fought, 
and  having  vanquished,  sounds  a  parley,  and  capitu- 
lates to  his  own  prisoner?  Had  the  lady  chosen, 
had  the  fortune  of  war  been  other,  'tis  like  she  had 
been  Mrs.  Austin.    Now  !  .   .  .    You  know  the  world. 

FENWICK.  I  know,  sir,  that  the  world  contains 
much  cowardice.  To  find  Mr.  Austin  afraid  to  do 
the  right,  this  surprises  me. 

Austin.  Afraid,  child  ? 

Fenwick.  Yes,  sir,  afraid.  You  know  her,  you 
know  if  she  be  worthy  ;  and  you  answer  me  with — 
the  world  :  the  world  which  has  been  at  your  feet  : 
the  world  which  Mr.  Austin  knows  so  well  how  to 
value  and  is  so  able  to  rule. 

Austin.  I  have  lived  long  enough,  Mr.  Fenwick, 
to  recognise  that  the  world  is  a  great  power.  It  can 
make  ;  but  it  can  break. 

Fenwick.  Sir,  suffer  me  :  you  spoke  but  now  of 
friendship,  and  spoke  warmly.  Have  you  forgotten 
Colonel  Villiers  ? 

Austin.  Mr.  Fenwick,  Mr.  Fenwick,  you  forget 
what  I  have  suffered. 

FENWICK.  O  sir,  I  know  you  loved  him.  And  yet, 
for  a  random  word  you  quarrelled  ;  friendship  was 
142 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

weighed  in  vain  against  the  world's  code  of  honour  ; 

you  fought,  and  your  friend  fell.     I  have  heard  from      Sc   J. 

others  how  he  lay  long  in  agony,  and  how  you  watched 

and  nursed  him,  and  it  was  in  your  embrace  he  died. 

In  God's  name  have  you  forgotten  that  ?     Was  not 

this  sacrifice  enough  ?  or  must  the  world,  once  again, 

step  between  Mr.  Austin  and  his  generous  heart  ? 

Austin.  Good  God,  sir,  I  believe  you  are  in  the 
right ;  I  believe,  upon  my  soul  I  believe,  there  is  some- 
thing in  what  you  say. 

Fenwick.  Something,  Mr.  Austin  ?  O  credit  me, 
the  whole  difference  betwixt  good  and  evil. 

AUSTIN.  Nay,  nay,  but  there  you  go  too  far.  There 
are  many  kinds  of  good  :  honour  is  a  diamond  cut  in 
a  thousand  facets,  and  with  the  true  fire  in  each. 
Thus,  and  with  all  our  differences,  Mr.  Fenwick,  you 
and  I  can  still  respect,  we  can  still  admire  each 
other. 

Fenwick.  Bear  with  me  still,  sir,  if  I  ask  you  what 
is  the  end  of  life  but  to  excel  in  generosity  ?  To  pity 
the  weak,  to  comfort  the  afflicted,  to  right  where  we 
have  wronged,  to  be  brave  in  reparation — these  noble 
elements  you  have  ;  for  of  what  besides  is  the  fabric 
of  your  dealing  with  Colonel  Villiers  ?  That  is  man's 
chivalry  to  man.  Yet  to  a  suffering  woman — a 
woman  feeble,  betrayed,  unconsoled — you  deny  your 
clemency,  you  refuse  your  aid,  you  proffer  injustice 
for  atonement.  Nay,  you  are  so  disloyal  to  yourself 
that  you  can  choose  to  be  ungenerous  and  unkind. 

H3 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Where,  sir,  is  the  honour  ?  What  facet  of  the  dia- 
c„    .      rnond  is  that  ? 

AUSTIN.   You  forget,  sir,  you  forget.      But  go  on. 

Fenwick.  O  sir,  not  I — not  I  but  yourself  forgets  : 
George  Austin  forgets  George  Austin.  A  woman 
loved  by  him,  betrayed  by  him,  abandoned  by  him — 
that  woman  suffers  ;  and  a  point  of  honour  keeps 
him  from  his  place  at  her  feet.  She  has  played  and 
lost,  and  the  world  is  with  him  if  he  deign  to  exact 
the  stakes.  Is  that  the  Mr.  Austin  whom  Miss 
Musgrave  honoured  with  her  trust  ?  Then,  sir,  how 
miserably  was  she  deceived  ! 

Austin.  Child — child 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  still  bear  with  me,  still 
follow  me.  O  sir,  will  you  not  picture  that  dear  lady's 
life  ?  Her  years  how  few,  her  error  thus  irreparable, 
what  henceforth  can  be  her  portion  but  remorse,  the 
consciousness  of  self-abasement,  the  shame  of  know- 
ing that  her  trust  was  ill-bestowed  ?  To  think  of  it  : 
this  was  a  queen  among  women  ;  and  this — this  is 
George  Austin's  work  !  Sir,  let  me  touch  your  heart  : 
let  me  prevail  with  you  to  feel  that  'tis  impossible. 

Austin.  I  am  a  gentleman.  What  do  you  ask  ot 
me  ? 

Fenwick.  To  be  the  man  she  loved  :  to  be  clement 
where  the  world  would  have  you  triumph,  to  be  of 
equal  generosity  with  the  vanquished,  to  be  worthy  of 
her  sacrifice  and  of  youself. 

Austin.   Mr.  Fenwick,  your  reproof  is  harsh 

144 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

FENWICK  {interrupting  him).     O  sir,  be  just,  be         II 

just! Sc.  4 

Austin.  But  it  is  merited,  and  I  thank  you  for  its 
utterance.  You  tell  me  that  the  true  victory  comes 
when  the  fight  is  won  :  that  our  foe  is  never  so  noble 
nor  so  dangerous  as  when  she  is  fallen,  that  the 
crowning  triumph  is  that  we  celebrate  over  our  con- 
quering selves.  Sir,  you  are  right.  Kindness,  ay 
kindness  after  all.  And  with  age,  to  become  clement. 
Yes,  ambition  first ;  then,  the  rounded  vanity — victory 
still  novel  ;  and  last,  as  you  say,  the  royal  mood  of 
the  mature  man  :  to  abdicate  for  others.  .  .  .  Sir, 
you  touched  me  hard  about  my  dead  friend  ;  still 
harder  about  my  living  duty  ;  and  I  am  not  so  young 
but  I  can  take  a  lesson.  There  is  my  hand  upon  it  : 
she  shall  be  my  wife. 

Fenwick.  Ah,  Mr.  Austin,  I  was  sure  of  it. 

Austin.  Then,  sir,  you  were  vastly  mistaken. 
There  is  nothing  of  Beau  Austin  here.  I  have  simply, 
my  dear  child,  sate  at  the  feet  of  Mr.  Fenwick. 

Fenwick.  Ah,  sir,  your  heart  was  counsellor  enough. 

Austin.  Pardon  me.  I  am  vain  enough  to  be  the 
judge  :  there  are  but  two  people  in  the  world  who 
could  have  wrought  this  change  :  yourself  and  that 
dear  lady.  {Touches  bell.)  Suffer  me  to  dismiss  you. 
One  instant  of  toilet,  and  I  follow.  Will  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  go  before,  and  announce  my  approach  ? 
(Enter  Menteith.) 

Fenwick.   Sir,  if  my  admiration 

145 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

II  AUSTIN.   Dear  child,  the   admiration   is  the  other 

J^c    «      way.     (Embraces  him.     Menteith  shows  him  out!) 

SCENE  V 
Austin 

Sc.  K  AUSTIN.      Upon    my  word,    I    think   the    world  is 

getting  better.  We  were  none  of  us  young  men  like 
that— in  my  time,  to  quote  my  future  brother.  (He 
sits  down  before  the  mirror.)  Well,  here  ends  Beau 
Austin.  Paris,  Rome,  Vienna,  London — victor  every- 
where :  and  now  he  must  leave  his  bones  in  Tun- 
bridge  Wells.  (Looks  at  his  leg.)  Poor  Dolly 
Musgrave  !  a  good  girl  after  all,  and  will  make  me  a 
good  wife  ;  none  better.  The  last — of  how  many  ? — 
ay,  and  the  best  !  Walks  like  Hebe.  But  still,  here 
ends  Beau  Austin.  Perhaps  it's  time.  Poor  Dolly — 
was  she  looking  poorly  ?  She  shall  have  her  wish. 
Well,  we  grow  older,  but  we  grow  no  worse. 

SCENE  VI 

Austin,  Menteith 

Sc.  6  AUSTIN.  Menteith,  I  am  going  to  be  married. 

Menteith.   Well,  Mr.  George,  but  I  am  pleased 
to  hear  it.      Miss  Musgrave  is  a  most  elegant  lady. 

Austin.  Ay,  Mr.  Menteith  ?  and  who  told  you  the 
lady's  name  ? 
146 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Menteith.  Mr.  George,  you  was  always  a  gentle- 
man- Sc.  6 
Austin.  You  mean  I  wasn't  always  ?     Old  boy, 

you  are  in  the  right.  This  shall  be  a  good  change 
for  both  you  and  me.  We  have  lived  too  long  like  a 
brace  of  truants  :  now  is  the  time  to  draw  about  the 
fire.     How  much  is  left  of  the  old  Hermitage  ? 

Menteith.  Hard  upon  thirty  dozen,  Mr.  George, 
and  not  a  bad  cork  in  the  bin. 

Austin.  And  a  mistress,  Menteith,  that's  worthy 
of  that  wine. 

Menteith.  Mr.  George,  sir,  she's  worthy  of  you. 

AUSTIN.  Gad,  I  believe  it.  (Shakes  hands  with 
him.) 

Menteith  (breaking  down).  Mr.  George,  you've 
been  a  damned  good  master  to  me,  and  I've  been  a 
damned  good  servant  to  you  ;  we've  been  proud  of 
each  other  from  the  first  ;  but  if  you'll  excuse  my 
plainness,  Mr.  George,  I  never  liked  you  better  than 
to-day. 

Austin.  Cheer  up,  old  boy,  the  best  is  yet  to  come. 
Get  out  the  tongs,  and  curl  me  like  a  bridegroom. 
(Siis  before  dressing-glass ;  Menteith  produces 
curling  irons  and  plies  tliem.     Austin  sings) — 

'  I'd  crowns  resign 
To  call  her  mine, 
Sweet  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill  !  ' 

Drop 

147 


Musical  Induction:  the  '  Minuet '  from  '•Don  Giovanni' 

ACT   III 

The  stage  represents  Miss  Foster's  lodging  as  in  Act  J. 

SCENE    I 

Dorothy,  R.,  at  tambour  ;  Anthony,  C,  bestriding 

,tt  chair;  Miss  Foster,  L.C. 

Sc.  I  Anthony.  Yes,  ma'am,  I  like  my  regiment :  We 
are  all  gentlemen,  from  old  Fred  downwards,  and  all 
of  a  good  family.  Indeed,  so  are  all  my  friends, 
except  one  tailor  sort  of  fellow,  Bosbury.  But  I'm 
done  with  him.  I  assure  you,  Aunt  Evelina,  we  are 
Corinthian  to  the  last  degree.  I  wouldn't  shock  you 
ladies  for  the  world 

Miss  Foster.   Don't  mind  me,  my  dear  ;  go  on. 

Anthony.  Really,  ma'am,  you  must  pardon  me  : 
I  trust  I  understand  what  topics  are  to  be  avoided 
among  females — And  before  my  sister,  too  !     A  girl 
of  her  age  ! 
148 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Dorothy.  Why,  you  dear,  silly  fellow,  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother.  Cc    ^ 

Anthony.  My  dear  Dolly,  you  do  not  understand  ; 
vou  are  not  a  man  of  the  world.  But,  as  I  was  going 
on  to  say,  there  is  no  more  spicy  regiment  in  the 
service. 

Miss  Foster.  I  am  not  surprised  that  it  maintains 
its  old  reputation.  You  know,  my  dear  (/V>  Dorothy), 
it  was  George  Austin's  regiment. 

Dorothy.  Was  it,  Aunt  ? 

ANTHONY.  Beau  Austin  ?  Yes,  it  was  ;  and  a 
precious  dust  they  make  about  him  still — a  parcel  of 
old  frumps  !  That's  why  I  went  to  see  him.  But  he's 
quite  extinct  :  he  couldn't  be  Corinthian  if  he  tried. 

Miss  Foster.  I  am  afraid  that  even  at  your  age 
George  Austin  held  a  very  different  position  from  the 
distinguished  Anthony  Musgrave. 

Anthony.  Come,  ma'am,  I  take  that  unkindly. 
Of  course  I  know  what  you're  at  :  of  course  the  old 
put  cut  no  end  of  a  dash  with  the  Duchess. 

Miss  Foster.  My  dear  child,  I  was  thinking  of 
no  such  thing  ;  that  was  immoral. 

Anthony.  Then  you  mean  that  affair  at  Brighton  : 
when  he  cut  the  Prince  about  Perdita  Robinson. 

Miss  Foster.  No,  I  had  forgotten  it. 

Anthony.  O,  well,  I  know— that  duel  !  But  look 
here,  Aunt  Evelina,  I  don't  think  you'd  be  much 
gratified  after  all  if  I  were  to  be  broke  for  killing  my 
commanding  officer  about  a  quarrel  at  cards. 

149 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

III  Dorothy.  Nobody  asks  you,  Anthony,  to  imitate 

Cq  j  Mr.  Austin.  I  trust  you  will  set  yourself  a  better 
model.  But  you  may  choose  a  worse.  With  all  his 
faults,  and  all  his  enemies,  Mr.  Austin  is  a  pattern 
gentleman  :  You  would  not  ask  a  man  to  be  braver, 
and  there  are  few  so  generous.  I  cannot  bear  to 
hear  him  called  in  fault  by  one  so  young.  Better 
judges,  dear,  are  better  pleased. 

Anthony.  Hey-dey  !  what's  this  ? 

Miss  Foster.  Why,  Dolly,  this  is  April  and  May. 
You  surprise  me. 

Dorothy.  I  am  afraid,  indeed,  madam,  that  you 
have  much  to  suffer  from  my  caprice.  {She  goes 
out,  L.) 

SCENE  II 

Anthony,  Miss  Foster 

Sc.  2  Anthony.    What    is    the    meaning    of  all   this, 

ma'am  ?     I  don't  like  it. 

Miss  Foster.  Nothing,  child,  that  I  know.  You 
spoke  of  Mr.  Austin,  our  dear  friend,  like  a  groom  ; 
and  she,  like  any  lady  of  taste,  took  arms  in  his 
defence. 

Anthony.  No,  ma'am,  that  won't  do.  I  know 
the  sex.  You  mark  my  words,  the  girl  has  some 
confounded  nonsense  in  her  head,  and  wants  looking 
after. 

MlSS  Foster.  In  my  presence,  Anthony,  I  shall 
ask  you  to  speak  of  Dorothy  with  greater  respect. 
150 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

With  your  permission,  your  sister  and  I  will  continue 

to  direct  our    own    affairs.     When  we    require  the      c~    ~ 

interference  of  so  young  and  confident  a  champion, 

you  shall  know.     [Curtsies,  kisses  her  hand,  and  goes 

out,  L.) 

SCENE    III 

Anthony 

Anthony.  Upon  my  word,  I  think  Aunt  Evelina      Sc.  3 
one  of  the  most  uncivil   old  women  in    the  world. 
Nine  weeks  ago  I  came  of  age  ;  and  they  still  treat 
me  like  a  boy.     I'm  a  recognised   Corinthian,  too  : 
take  my  liquor  with  old  Fred,  and  go  round  with  the 

Brummagem    Bantam    and   Jack    Bosb .  .   .  O 

damn  Jack  Bosbury.  If  his  father  was  a  tailor, 
he  shall  fight  me  for  his  ungentlemanly  conduct. 
However,  that's  all  one.  What  I  want  is  to  make 
Aunt  Evelina  understand  that  I'm  not  the  man  to  be 
put  down  by  an  old  maid  who's  been  brought  up  in 
a  work-basket,  begad  !  I've  had  nothing  but  rebuffs 
all  clay.  It's  very  remarkable.  There  was  that  man 
Austin,  to  begin  with.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  stand 
him.  I  hear  too  much  of  him  ;  and  if  I  can  only  get 
a  good  excuse  to  put  him  to  the  door,  I  believe  it 
would  give  Dorothy  and  all  of  us  a  kind  of  a  position. 
After  all,  he's  not  a  man  to  visit  in  the  house  of 
ladies  :  not  when  I'm  away,  at  least.  Nothing  in  it 
of  course  ;  but  is  he  a  man  whose  visits  I  can 
sanction  ? 

151 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

SCENE   IV 

,tt  Anthony,  Barbara 

Sc.  A  Barbara.  Please,  Mr.  Anthony,  Miss  Foster  said 
I  was  to  show  your  room. 

Anthony.  Ha  !  Baby  ?  Now,  you  come  here. 
You're  a  girl  of  sense,  I  know. 

Barbara.  La,  Mr.  Anthony,  I  hope  I'm  nothing 
of  the  kind. 

Anthony.  Come,  come!  that's  not  the  tone  I 
want  :  I'm  serious.  Does  this  man  Austin  come 
much  about  the  house  ? 

Barbara.  O  Mr.  Anthony,  for  shame !  Why 
don't  you  ask  Miss  Foster  ? 

ANTHONY.  Now  I  wish  you  to  understand  :  I'm 
the  head  of  this  family.  It's  my  business  to  look 
after  my  sister's  reputation,  and  my  aunt's  too, 
begad !  That's  what  I'm  here  for  :  I'm  their 
natural  protector.  And  what  I  want  you,  Barbara 
Ridley,  to  understand — you  whose  fathers  have  served 
my  fathers — is  just  simply  this  :  if  you've  any 
common  gratitude,  you're  bound  to  help  me  in  the 
work.  Now  Barbara,  you  know  me,  and  you  know 
my  Aunt  Evelina.  She's  a  good  enough  woman  ; 
I'm  the  first  to  say  so.  But  who  is  she  to  take  care 
of  a  young  girl  ?  She's  ignorant  of  the  world  to  that 
degree  she  believes  in  Beau  Austin  !  Now  you  and 
I,  Bab,  who  are  not  so  high  and  dry,  see  through 
152 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

and  through  him  ;  we  know  that  a  man  like  that  is 

no  fit  company  for  any  inexperienced  girl.  Sc  J. 

Barbara.  O  Mr.  Anthony,  don't  say  that. 
( Weeping. ) 

Anthony.  Hullo  !  what's  wrong  ? 

Barbara.  Nothing  that  I  know  of.  O  Mr. 
Anthony,  I  don't  think  there  can  be  anything. 

ANTHONY.  Think  ?     Don't  think  ?    What's  this  ? 

Barbara.  O  sir  !  I  don't  know,  and  yet  I  don't 
like  it.  Here's  my  beautiful  necklace  all  broke  to 
bits  :  she  took  it  off  my  very  neck,  and  gave  me  her 
birthday  pearls  instead  ;  and  I  found  it  afterwards  on 
the  table,  all  smashed  to  pieces  ;  and  all  she  wanted 
it  for  was  to  take  and  break  it.  Why  that  ?  It 
frightens  me,  Mr.  Anthony,  it  frightens  me. 

Anthony  {with  necklace).  This  ?  What  has  this 
trumpery  to  do  with  us  ? 

Barbara.  He  gave  it  me  :  that's  why  she  broke 
it. 

Anthony.  He  ?  who  ? 

Barbara.  Mr.  Austin  did  ;  and  I  do  believe  I 
should  not  have  taken  it,  Mr.  Anthony,  but  I  thought 
no  harm,  upon  my  word  of  honour.  He  was  always 
here  :  that  was  six  months  ago  ;  and  indeed,  indeed, 
I  thought  they  were  to  marry.  How  would  I  think 
else  with  a  born  lady  like  Miss  Dorothy  ? 

Anthony.  Why,  Barbara,  God  help  us  all,  what's 
this  ?     You  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  was 

Barbara.  Here  it  is,  as  true  as  true  :  they  were 

153 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

going  for  a  jaunt  ;  and  Miss  Foster  had  her  gout  ; 
gQ  a  and  I  was  to  go  with  them  ;  and  he  told  me  to  make- 
believe  I  was  ill  ;  and  I  did  ;  and  I  stayed  at  home  ; 
and  he  gave  me  that  necklace  ;  and  they  went  away 
together  ;  and,  oh  dear  !   I  wish  I'd  never  been  born. 

Anthony.  Together  ?  he  and  Dolly  ?  Good  Lord  ! 
my  sister  !     And  since  then  ? 

Barbara.  We  haven't  seen  him  from  that  day  to 
this,  the  wicked  villain  ;  and,  Mr.  Anthony,  he  hasn't 
so  much  as  written  the  poor  dear  a  word. 

Anthony.  Bab,  Bab,  Bab,  this  is  a  devil  of  a  bad 
business  ;  this  is  a  cruel  bad  business,  Baby  ;  cruel 
upon  me,  cruel  upon  all  of  us  ;  a  family  like  mine. 
I'm  a  young  man,  Barbara,  to  have  this  delicate 
affair  to  manage  ;  but,  thank  God,  I'm  Musgrave 
to  the  bone.  He  bribed  a  servant-maid,  did  he  ? 
I  keep  his  bribe  ;  it's  mine  now  ;  dear  bought,  by 
George  !  He  shall  have  it  in  his  teeth.  Shot 
Colonel  Villiers,  did  he?  we'll  see  how  he  faces 
Anthony  Musgrave.  You're  a  good  girl,  Barbara; 
so  far  you've  served  the  family.  You  leave  this 
to  me.  And,  hark  ye,  dry  your  eyes  and  hold  your 
tongue  :   I'll  have  no  scandal  raised  by  you. 

Barbara.  I  do  hope,  sir,  you  won't  use  me 
against  Miss  Dorothy. 

Anthony.  That's  my  affair  ;  your  business  is  to 
hold  your  tongue.  Miss  Dorothy  has  made  her  bed 
and  must  lie  on  it.     Here's  Jack  Fenwick.     You  can 


154 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

SCENE    V 
Anthony,  Fenwick 

ANTHONY.  Jack  Fenwick,  is  that  you  ?  Come 
here,  my  boy.  Jack,  you've  given  me  many  a 
thrashing,  and  I  deserved  'em  ;  and  I'll  not  see  you 
made  a  fool  of  now.  George  Austin  is  a  dammed 
villain,  and  Dorothy  Musgrave  is  no  girl  for  you  to 
marry  :   God  help  me  that  I  should  have  to  say  it. 

Fenwick.  Good  God,  who  told  you  ? 

Anthony.  Ay,  Jack  ;  it's  hard  on  me,  Jack.  But 
you'll  stand  my  friend  in  spite  of  this,  and  you'll 
take  my  message  to  the  man  won't  you  ?  For  it's 
got  to  come  to  blood,  Jack  :  there's  no  way  out  of 
that.  And  perhaps  your  poor  friend  will  fall,  Jack  ; 
think  of  that  :  like  Villiers.  And  all  for  an  unworthy 
sister. 

FENWICK.  Now,  Anthony  Musgrave,  I  give  you 
fair  warning ;  see  you  take  it  :  one  word  more  against 
your  sister,  and  we  quarrel. 

Anthony.  You  let  it  slip  yourself,  Jack  :  you  know 
yourself  she's  not  a  virtuous  girl. 

Fenwick.  What  do  you  know  of  virtue,  whose 
whole  boast  is  to  be  vicious  ?  How  dare  you  draw 
conclusions  ?  Dolt  and  puppy  !  you  can  no  more 
comprehend  that  angel's  excellencies  than  she  can 
stoop  to  believe  in  your  vices.  And  you  talk  morality  ? 
Anthony,  I'm  a  man  who  has  been  somewhat  roughly 
tried  :  take  care. 

155 


III 

Sc.  5 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

ANTHONY.  You  don't  seem  able  to  grasp  the  situa- 
te -  tion,  Jack.  It's  very  remarkable ;  I'm  the  girl's 
natural  protector ;  and  you  should  buckle-to  and 
help,  like  a  friend  of  the  family.  And  instead  of 
that,  begad !  you  turn  on  me  like  all  the  rest. 

FENWICK.  Now  mark  me  fairly  :  Mr.  Austin  fol- 
lows at  my  heels  ;  he  comes  to  offer  marriage  to  your 
sister — that  is  all  you  know,  and  all  you  shall  know  ; 
and  if  by  any  misplaced  insolence  of  yours  this 
marriage  should  miscarry,  you  have  to  answer,  not  to 
Mr.  Austin  only,  but  to  me. 

Anthony.  It's  all  a  most  discreditable  business, 
and  I  don't  see  how  you  propose  to  better  it  by 
cutting  my  throat.  Of  course  if  he's  going  to  marry 
her,  it's  a  different  thing  ;  but  I  don't  believe  he  is, 
or  he'd  have  asked  me.  You  think  me  a  fool  ?  Well, 
see  they  marry,  or  they'll  find  me  a  dangerous  fool. 

SCENE    VI 

To  these,  Austin,  Barbara  announcing 

c     (z         Barbara.  Mr.  Austin.     {She  shows  Austin  in, 
and  retires. ) 

Austin.  You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  acknowledge, 
Mr.  Fenwick,  that  I  have  been  not  long  delayed  by 
my  devotion  to  the  Graces. 

Anthony.  So,  sir,  I  find  you  in  my  house 

Austin.  And  charmed  to  meet  you  again.     It  went 
against  my  conscience  to  separate  so  soon.     Youth, 
156 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Mr.  Musgrave,  is  to  us  older  men  a  perpetual  refresh- 

ment-  Sc.  6 

Anthony.  You  came  here,  sir,  I  suppose,  upon 
some  errand  ? 

Austin.  My  errand,  Mr.  Musgrave,  is  to  your  fan- 
sister.     Beauty,  as  you  know,  comes  before  valour. 

ANTHONY.  In  my  own  house,  and  about  my  own 
sister,  I  presume  I  have  the  right  to  ask  for  some- 
thing more  explicit. 

Austin.  The  right,  my  dear  sir,  is  beyond  ques- 
tion ;  but  it  is  one,  as  you  were  going  on  to  observe, 
on  which  no  gentleman  insists. 

Fenwick.  Anthony,  my  good  fellow,  I  think  we 
had  better  go. 

Anthony.  I  have  asked  a  question. 

Austin.  Which  1  was  charmed  to  answer,  but 
which,  on  repetition,  might  begin  to  grow  distasteful. 

Anthony.  In  my  own  house 

Fenwick.  For  God's  sake,  Anthony! 

Austin.  In  your  aunt's  house,  young  gentleman.  I 
shall  be  careful  to  refrain  from  criticism.  I  am  come 
upon  a  visit  to  a  lady  :  that  visit  I  shall  pay  ;  when 
you  desire  (if  it  be  possible  that  you  desire  it)  to 
resume  this  singular  conversation,  select  some  fitter 
place.  Mr.  Fenwick,  this  afternoon,  may  I  present 
you  to  his  Royal  Highness  ? 

Anthony.  Why,  sir,  I  believe  you  must  have  mis- 
conceived me.  I  have  no  wish  to  offend  :  at  least  at 
present. 

157 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Austin.  Enough,    sir.     I    was   persuaded    I   had 
Sc   6      neard  amiss.      I  trust  we  shall  be  friends. 

Fenwick.  Come,  Anthony,  come  :  here  is  your 
sister. 

(As  Fenwick  and  Anthony^  out,  C,  enter 
Dorothy,  L.) 

SCENE  VII 

Austin,  Dorothy 

Sc.  7  DOROTHY.  I  am  told,  Mr.  Austin,  that  you  wish 

to  see  me. 

Austin.  Madam,  can  you  doubt  of  that  desire  ? 
can  you  question  my  sincerity  ? 

DOROTHY.  Sir,  between  you  and  me  these  compli- 
ments are  worse  than  idle  :  they  are  unkind.  Sure, 
we  are  alone  ! 

Austin.  I  find  you  in  an  hour  of  cruelty,  I  fear. 
Yet  you  have  condescended  to  receive  this  poor 
offender  ;  and  having  done  so  much,  you  will  not 
refuse  to  give  him  audience. 

Dorothy.  You  shall  have  no  cause,  sir,  to  com- 
plain of  me.     I  listen. 

Austin.  My  fair  friend,  I  have  sent  myself — a  poor 
ambassador— to  plead  for  your  forgiveness.  I  have 
been  too  long  absent ;  too  long,  I  would  fain  hope, 
madam,  for  you  ;  too  long  for  my  honour  and  my 
love.  I  am  no  longer,  madam,  in  my  first  youth  ;  but 
I  may  say  that  I  am  not  unknown.  My  fortune, 
158 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

originally  small,  has  not  suffered  from  my  husbandry.        1 1 1 
1  have  excellent  health,  an  excellent  temper,  and  the      gc   - 
purest  ardour  of  affection  for  your  person.     I  found 
not  on  my  merits,  but   on  your  indulgence.     Miss 
Musgrave,  will  you    honour  me    with  your   hand  in 
marriage  ? 

Dorothy.  Mr.  Austin,  if  I  thought  basely  of 
marriage,  I  should  perhaps  accept  your  offer.  There 
was  a  time,  indeed,  when  it  would  have  made  me 
proudest  among  women.  I  was  the  more  deceived, 
and  have  to  thank  you  for  a  salutary  lesson.  You 
chose  to  count  me  as  a  cipher  in  your  rolls  of 
conquest  ;  for  six  months  you  left  me  to  my  fate  ; 
and  you  come  here  to-day — prompted,  I  doubt  not, 
by  an  honourable  impulse — to  offer  this  tardy  repa- 
ration.    No  :  it  is  too  late. 

Austin.   Do  you  refuse  ? 

Dorothy.  Yours  is  the  blame  :  we  are  no  longer 
equal.  You  have  robbed  me  of  the  right  to  marry 
any  one  but  you  ;  and  do  you  think  me,  then,  so  poor 
in  spirit  as  to  accept  a  husband  on  compulsion  ? 

AUSTIN.   Dorothy,  you  loved  me  once. 

Dorothy.  Ay,  you  will  never  guess  how  much  : 
you  will  never  live  to  understand  how  ignominious  a 
defeat  that  conquest  was.  I  loved  and  trusted  you  : 
I  judged  you  by  myself;  think,  then,  of  my  humilia- 
tion, when,  at  the  touch  of  trial,  all  your  qualities 
proved  false,  and  I  beheld  you  the  slave  of  the 
meanest  vanity — selfish,  untrue,  base  !     Think,  sir, 

159 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

what  a  humbling  of  my  pride  to  have  been  thus 
C«  ~  deceived  :  to  have  taken  for  my  idol  such  a  common- 
place imposture  as  yourself;  to  have  loved — yes, 
loved — such  a  shadow,  such  a  mockery  of  man.  And 
now  I  am  unworthy  to  be  the  wife  of  any  gentleman  ; 
and  you — look  me  in  the  face,  George — are  you 
worthy  to  be  my  husband  ? 

Austin.  No,  Dorothy,  I  am  not.  I  was  a  vain 
fool  ;  I  blundered  away  the  most  precious  oppor- 
tunity ;  and  my  regret  will  be  lifelong.  Do  me  the 
justice  to  accept  this  full  confession  of  my  fault.  I 
am  here  to-day  to  own  and  to  repair  it. 

Dorothy.  Repair  it?  Sir,  you  condescend  too  far. 

Austin.  I  perceive  with  shame  how  grievously  I 
had  misjudged  you.  But  now,  Dorothy,  believe  me, 
my  eyes  are  opened.  I  plead  with  you,  not  as  my 
equal,  but  as  one  in  all  ways  better  than  myself.  I 
admire  you,  not  in  that  trivial  sense  in  which  we  men 
are  wont  to  speak  of  women,  but  as  God's  work  :  as  a 
wise  mind,  a  noble  soul,  and  a  most  generous  heart, 
from  whose  society  I  have  all  to  gain,  all  to  learn. 
Dorothy,  in  one  word,  I  love  you. 

DOROTHY.  And  what,  sir,  has  wrought  this  trans- 
formation ?  You  knew  me  of  old,  or  thought  you 
knew  me  ?  Is  it  in  six  months  of  selfish  absence  that 
your  mind  has  changed?  When  did  that  change- 
begin  ?  A  week  ago  ?  Sure,  you  would  have  written  ! 
To-day  ?  Sir,  if  this  offer  be  anything  more  than 
fresh  offence,  I  have  a  right  to  be  enlightened. 
1 60 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Austin.  Madam,  I  foresaw  this  question.  So  be  HI 
it  :  I  respect,  and  I  will  not  deceive  you.  But  give  Cr  « 
me,  first  of  all,  a  moment  for  defence.  There  are  few 
men  of  my  habits  and  position  who  would  have  done 
as  I  have  done  :  sate  at  the  feet  of  a  young  boy, 
accepted  his  lessons,  gone  upon  his  errand  :  fewer 
still,  who  would  thus,  at  the  crisis  of  a  love,  risk  the 
whole  fortune  of  the  soul — love,  gratitude,  even 
respect.  Yet  more  than  that !  For  conceive  how  I 
respect  you,  if  I,  whose  lifelong  trade  has  been 
flattery,  stand  before  you  and  make  the  plain  con- 
fession of  a  truth  that  must  not  only  lower  me,  but 
deeply  wound  yourself. 

Dorothy.  What  means ? 

Austin.  Young  Fenwick,  my  rival  for  your  heart, 
he  it  was  that  sent  me. 

Dorothy.  He  ?  O  disgrace  !  He  sent  you ! 
That  was  what  he  meant  ?  Am  I  fallen  so  low  ?  Am 
I  your  common  talk  among  men  ?  Did  you  dice  for 
me  ?  Did  he  kneel  ?  O  John,  John,  how  could  you  ! 
And  you,  Mr.  Austin,  whither  have  you  brought  me 
down  ?  shame  heaping  upon  shame — to  what  end  ! 
oh,  to  what  end  ? 

Austin.  Madam,  you  wound  me  :  you  look  wilfully 
amiss.  Sure,  any  lady  in  the  land  might  well  be 
proud  to  be  loved  as  you  are  loved,  with  such  nobility 
as  Mr.  Fenwick's,  with  such  humility  as  mine.  I 
came,  indeed,  in  pity,  in  good-nature,  what  you 
will.    (See,  dearest  lady,  with  what  honesty  I  speak  : 

161 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

if  I  win  you,  it.  shall  be  with  the  unblemished  truth.) 
gc  j  All  that  is  gone.  Pity  ?  it  is  myself  I  pity.  I  offer 
you  not  love — I  am  not  worthy.  I  ask,  I  beseech  of 
you  :  suffer  me  to  wait  upon  you  like  a  servant,  to 
serve  you  with  my  rank,  my  name,  the  whole  devotion 
of  my  life.  I  am  a  gentleman — ay,  in  spite  of  my 
fault — an  upright  gentleman  ;  and  I  swear  to  you 
that  you  shall  order  your  life  and  mine  at  your  free 
will.  Dorothy,  at  your  feet,  in  remorse,  in  respect,  in 
love — O  such  love  as  I  have  never  felt,  such  love  as 
I  derided — I  implore,  I  conjure  you  to  be  mine ! 

Dorothy.  Too  late  !  too  late. 

Austin.  No,  no,  not  too  late  :  not  too  late  for 
penitence,  not  too  late  for  love. 

DOROTHY.  Which  do  you  propose  ?  that  I  should 
abuse  your  compassion,  or  reward  your  treachery  ? 
George  Austin,  I  have  been  your  mistress,  and  I  will 
never  be  your  wife. 

Austin.  Child,  dear  child,  I  have  not  told  you  all  : 
there  is  worse  still  :  your  brother  knows  ;  the  boy  as 
good  as  told  me.  Dorothy,  this  is  scandal  at  the 
door — O  let  that  move  you  :  for  that,  if  not  for  my 
sake,  for  that,  if  not  for  love,  trust  me,  trust  me  again. 

Dorothy.  I  am  so  much  the  more  your  victim  : 
that  is  all,  and  shall  that  change  my  heart  ?  The  sin 
must  have  its  wages.  This,  too,  was  done  long  ago  : 
when  you  stooped  to  lie  to  me.  The  shame  is  still 
mine,  the  fault  still  yours. 

Austin.  Child,  child,  you  kill  me  :  you  will  not 
162 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

understand.     Can  you  notsee?  the  lad  will  force  me        HI 
to  a  duel.  g(-<  y 

Dorothy.  And  you  will  kill  him  ?  Shame  after 
shame,  threat  upon  threat.  Marry  me,  or  you  are 
dishonoured  ;  marry  me,  or  your  brother  dies  :  and 
this  is  man's  honour  !  But  my  honour  and  my  pride 
are  different.  I  will  encounter  all  misfortune  sooner 
than  degrade  myself  by  an  unfaithful  marriage.  How 
should  I  kneel  before  the  altar,  and  vow  to  reverence 
as  my  husband  you,  you  who  deceived  me  as  my 
lover  ? 

Austin*.  Dorothy,  you  misjudge  me  cruelly  ;  I  have 
deserved  it.  You  will  not  take  me  for  your  husband  ; 
why  should  I  wonder  ?  You  are  right.  I  have 
indeed  filled  your  life  with  calamity  :  the  wages,  ay, 
the  wages,  of  my  sin  are  heavy  upon  you.  But  I 
have  one  more  thing  to  ask  of  your  pity  ;  and  O 
remember,  child,  who  it  is  that  asks  it  :  a  man  guilty 
in  your  sight,  void  of  excuse,  but  old,  and  very  proud, 
and  most  unused  to  supplication.  Dorothy  Musgrave, 
will  you  forgive  George  Austin  ? 

Dorothy.  O,  George  ! 

Austin.  It  is  the  old  name  :  that  is  all  I  ask,  and 
more  than  I  deserve.  I  shall  remember,  often 
remember,  how  and  where  it  was  bestowed  upon  me 
for  the  last  time.  I  thank  you,  Dorothy,  from  my 
heart  ;  a  heart,  child,  that  has  been  too  long  silent, 
but  is  not  too  old,  I  thank  God  !  not  yet  too  old,  to 
learn  a  lesson  and  to  accept  a  reproof.     I  will  not 

163 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

keep  you  longer  :  I  will  go — I  am  so  bankrupt  in 
Cc  -  credit  that  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  believe  in  how  much 
sorrow.  But,  Dorothy,  my  acts  will  speak  for  me 
with  more  persuasion.  If  it  be  in  my  power,  you 
shall  suffer  no  more  through  me  :  I  will  avoid  your 
brother  ;  I  will  leave  this  place,  I  will  leave  England, 
to-morrow  ;  you  shall  be  no  longer  tortured  with  the 
neighbourhood  of  your  ungenerous  lover.  Dorothy, 
farewell  ! 

SCENE  VIII 

Dorothy  ;  to  whom,  Anthony,  L. 

Sc.  8  DOROTHY  (on    her  knees,  and  reaching  with  her 

hands.)     George,  George  !     (Enter  Anthony.) 

Anthony.  Ha  !  what  are  you  crying  for  ? 

Dorothy.  Nothing,  dear  !     (Rising.) 

ANTHONY.   Is  Austin  going  to  marry  you  ? 

DOROTHY.   I  shall  never  marry. 

Anthony.  I  thought  as  much.  You  should  have 
come  to  me. 

Dorothy.  I  know,  dear,  I  know  ;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  come  about. 

Anthony.  It's  a  lie.  You  have  disgraced  the 
family.  You  went  to  John  Fenwick  :  see  what  he 
has  made  of  it !  But  I  will  have  you  righted  :  it  shall 
be  atoned  in  the  man's  blood. 

Dorothy.  Anthony  !     And  if  I  had  refused  him  ? 

Anthony.  You  ?    refuse    George    Austin  ?     You 
never  had  the  chance. 
164 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

Dorothy.   I  have  refused  him.  Ill 

Anthony.  Dorothy,    you  lie.     You  would  shield      g^   g 
your  lover  ;  but  this  concerns  not  you  only  :  it  strikes 
my  honour  and  my  father's  honour. 

Dorothy.  I  have  refused  him — refused  him,  I  tell 
you — refused  him.  The  blame  is  mine  ;  are  you  so 
mad  and  wicked  that  you  will  not  see  ? 

Anthony.  I  see  this  :  that  man  must  die. 

Dorothy.  He?  never!  You  forget,  you  forget 
whom  you  defy  ;  you  run  upon  your  death. 

Anthony.  Ah,  my  girl,  you  should  have  thought 
of  that  before.     It  is  too  late  now. 

DOROTHY.  Anthony,  if  I  beg  you — Anthony,  I 
have  tried  to  be  a  good  sister  ;  I  brought  you  up, 
dear,  nursed  you  when  you  were  sick,  fought  for  you, 
hoped  for  you,  loved  you — think  of  it,  think  of  the 
dear  past,  think  of  our  home  and  the  happy  winter 
nights,  the  castles  in  the  fire,  the  long  shining  future, 
the  love  that  was  to  forgive  and  suffer  always — O  you 
will  spare,  you  will  spare  me  this. 

Anthony.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,  Dolly  :  I 
will  do  just  what  you  taught  me — my  duty  :  that,  and 
nothing  else. 

DOROTHY.  O  Anthony,  you  also,  you  to  strike  me ! 
Heavens,  shall  I  kill  them — I — I,  that  love  them,  kill 
them!  Miserable,  sinful  girl!  George,  George, 
thank  God,  you  will  be  far  away  !  O  go,  George,  go 
at  once  ! 

Anthony.  He  goes,  the  coward  !  Ay,  is  this  more 

165 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

of  your  contrivance  ?  Madam,  you  make  me  blush. 
Sc  8  ^ut  to~day  at  least  I  know  where  I  can  find  him. 
This  afternoon,  on  the  Pantiles,  he  must  dance  atten- 
dance on  the  Duke  of  York.  Already  he  must  be 
there  ;  and  there  he  is  at  my  mercy. 

Dorothy.  Thank  God,  you  are  deceived  :  he  will 
not  fight.  He  promised  me  that  ;  thank  God  I  have 
his  promise  for  that. 

Anthony.  Promise  !  Do  you  see  this  ?  {producing 
necklace)  the  thing  he  bribed  your  maid  with  ?  I  shall 
dash  it  in  his  teeth  before  the  Duke  and  before  all 
Tunbridge.  Promise,  you  poor  fool  ?  what  promise 
holds  against  a  blow  ?  Get  to  your  knees  and  pray 
for  him  ;  for,  by  the  God  above,  if  he  has  any  blood 
in  his  body,  one  of  us  shall  die  before  to-night.  [He 
goes  out.) 

DOROTHY.  Anthony,  Anthony  !  .  .  .  O  my  God, 
George  will  kill  him. 

Music  :  '  Che  faro?  as  the  drop  falls. 


Drop. 


i  66 


Musical  Induction:  'Gavotte;'  '■Iphigenie  en  Aulide.' 

Gluck 

ACT    IV 

The  Stage  represents  the  Pantiles  :  the  alley s  fronting  the  spectators 

in  parallel  lines.    A  t  the  back,  a  stand  of  musicians,  front  which  the 

'  Gavotte''  is  repeated  on  muted  strings.      The  music  continues 

nearly  through  Scene  I.      Visitors  ivalking  to  and  fro 

beneath  the  limes.     A  seat  in  front,  L. 

SCENE  I 
Miss  Foster,  Barbara,  Menteith  ;   Visitors 

IV 

Miss  Foster  {entering  j  escorted  by  Menteith,  cc  t 
and  followed  by  Barbara).  And  so,  Menteith,  here 
you  are  once  more.  And  vastly  pleased  I  am  to  see 
you,  my  good  fellow,  not  only  for  your  own  sake, 
but  because  you  harbinger  the  Beau.  (Sits,  L.  ; 
Menteith  standing  over  her.) 

Menteith.  Honoured  madam,  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  to  serve  Mr.  George  for  more  than  thirty 
years.  This  is  a  privilege — a  very  great  privilege.  I 
have  beheld  him  in  the  first  societies,  moving  among 

167 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

IV  the  first  rank  of  personages  ;  and  none,  madam,  none 
Qq    j      outshone  him. 

Barbara.  I  assure  you, madam, when  Mr.  Menteith 
took  me  to  the  play,  he  talked  so  much  of  Mr.  Austin 
that  I  couldn't  hear  a  word  of  Mr.  Kean. 

MlSS  Foster.  Well,  well,  and  very  right.  That 
was  the  old  school  of  service,  Barbara,  which  you 
would  do  well  to  imitate.  This  is  a  child,  Menteith, 
that  I  am  trying  to  form. 

Menteith.   Quite  so,  madam. 

MlSS  Foster.  And  are  we  soon  to  see  our  princely 
guest,  Menteith  ? 

Menteith.  His  Royal  Highness,  madam  ?  I 
believe  I  may  say  quite  so.  Mr.  George  will  receive 
our  gallant  prince  upon  the  Pantiles  (looking  at  his 
watch)  in,  I  should  say,  a  matter  of  twelve  minutes 
from  now.  Such,  madam,  is  Mr.  George's  order  of 
the  day. 

Barbara.  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  I  am  sure, 
but  are  we  really  to  see  one  of  His  Majesty's  own 
brothers  ?  That  will  be  pure  !  O  madam,  this  is 
better  than  Carlisle. 

MlSS  Foster.  The  wood-note  wild  :  a  loyal 
Cumbrian,  Menteith. 

Menteith.  Eh  ?     Quite  so,  madam. 

Miss  Foster.  When  she  has  seen  as  much  of  the 
Royal  Family  as  you,  my  good  fellow,  she  will  find  it 
vastly  less  entertaining. 

Menteith.  Yes,  madam,  indeed  ;  In  these  distin- 
168 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

guished  circles,  life  is  but  a  slavery.     None  of  the         IV 
best  set  would  relish  Tunbridge  without  Mr.  George  ;      So    T 
Tunbridge  and  Mr.  George  (if  you'll  excuse  my  plain- 
ness, madam)  are  in  a  manner  of  speaking  identified  ; 
and    indeed    it    was    the    Dook's    desire    alone    that 
brought  us  here. 

Barbara.  What  ?  the  Duke  ?  O  dear  !  was  it  for 
that  ? 

Menteith.  Though,  to  be  sure,  madam,  Mr. 
George  would  always  be  charmed  to  find  himself 
{bowing)  among  so  many  admired  members  of  his 
own  set. 

Miss  Foster.  Upon  my  word,  Menteith,  Mr. 
Austin  is  as  fortunate  in  his  servant  as  his  reputation. 

Menteith.  Quite  so,  madam.  But  let  me  observe 
that  the  opportunities  I  have  had  of  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  Mr.  George's  character  have  been 
positively  unrivalled.  Nobody  knows  Mr.  George 
like  his  old  attendant.  The  goodness  of  that  gentle- 
man— but,  madam,  you  will  soon  be  equally  fortu- 
nate, if,  as  I  understand,  it  is  to  be  a  match. 

Miss  Foster.  I  hope,  Menteith,  you  are  not  taking 
leave  of  your  senses.  Is  it  possible  you  mean  my 
niece  ? 

MENTEITH.  Madam,  I  have  the  honour  to  con- 
gratulate you.  I  put  a  second  curl  in  Mr  George's 
hair  on  purpose. 


169 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

SCENE  II 

To  these,  Austin.  Mknteith /a//s  dach,  and  Austin 
takes  his  place  in  front  of  Miss    Foster,  his 
,,,  attitude  a  counterpart  of  Menteith's. 

Sc.  2  Austin.  Madam,  I  hasten  to  present  my  homage. 

Miss  Foster.  A  truce  to  compliments  !  Menteith, 
your  charming  fellow  there,  has  set  me  positively 
crazy.   Dear  George  Austin,  is  it  true  ?  can  it  be  true  ? 

AUSTIN.  Madam,  if  he  has  been  praising  your 
niece  he  has  been  well  inspired.  If  he  was  speaking, 
as  I  spoke  an  hour  ago  myself,  I  wish,  Miss  Foster, 
that  he  had  held  his  tongue.  I  have  indeed  offered 
myself  to  Miss  Dorothy,  and  she,  with  the  most 
excellent  reason,  has  refused  me. 

Miss  Foster.  Is  it  possible  ?  why,  my  dear  George 
Austin,  .  .  .  then  I  suppose  it  is  John  Fenvvick  after 
all! 

AUSTIN.  Not  one  of  us  is  worthy. 

Miss  Foster.  This  is  the  most  amazing  circum- 
stance. You  take  my  breath  away.  My  niece  refuse 
George  Austin  ?  why,  I  give  you  my  word,  I  thought 
she  had  adored  you.  A  perfect  scandal :  it  positively 
must  not  get  abroad. 

Austin.  Madam,  for  that   young   lady  I  have  a 

singular  regard.     Judge  me  as  tenderly  as  you  can, 

and  set  it  down,  if  you  must,  to  an  old  man's  vanity — 

for,  Evelina,  we  are  no  longer  in  the  heyday  of  our 

170 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

youth — judge  me  as  you  will  :   I  should  prefer  to  have         IV 
it  known.  Cp    0 

MISS  FOSTER.  Can  you  ?  George  Austin,  you  ? 
My  youth  was  nothing  ;  I  was  a  failure  ;  but  for 
you  ?  no,  George,  you  never  can,  you  never  must  be 
old.  You  are  the  triumph  of  my  generation,  George, 
and  of  our  old  friendship  too.  Think  of  my  first 
dance  and  my  first  partner.  And  to  have  this  story 
— no,  I  could  not  bear  to  have  it  told  of  you. 

Austin.  Madam,  there  are  some  ladies  over  whom 
it  is  a  boast  to  have  prevailed  ;  there  are  others 
whom  it  is  a  glory  to  have  loved.  And  I  am  so 
vain,  dear  Evelina,  that  even  thus  I  am  proud  to  link 
my  name  with  that  of  Dorothy  Musgrave. 

MiSS  Foster.  George,  you  are  changed.  I  would 
not  know  you. 

Austin.  I  scarce  know  myself.  But  pardon  me, 
dear  friend  {taking  out  his  watch),  in  less  than  four 
minutes  our  illustrous  guest  will  descend  amongst 
us  ;  and  I  observe  Mr.  Fenwick,  with  whom  I  have 
a  pressing  business.     Suffer  me,  dear  Evelina  ! 

SCENE    III 

To  these,  Fenwick.  Miss  Foster  remains  seated, 
L.  Austin  goes  R.  to  Fenwick,  whom  he 
salutes  with  great  respect. 

Austin.  Mr.   Fenwick,   1    have  played    and  lost.      cr    - 
That  noble  lady,  justly  incensed  at  my  misconduct, 

171 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

IV        has  condemned  me.     Under    the  burden  of  such  a 
C„    -      loss,  may  I   console   myself  with  the   esteem  of  Mr. 
Fenwick  ? 

FENWICK.  She  refused  you  ?  Pardon  me,  sir,  but 
was  the  fault  not  yours  ? 

Austin.  Perhaps  to  my  shame,  I  am  no  novice, 
Mr.  Fenwick  ;  but  1  have  never  felt  nor  striven  as 
to-day.  I  went  upon  your  errand  ;  but,  you  may 
trust  me,  sir,  before  I  had  done  I  found  it  was  my 
own.  Until  to-day  I  never  rightly  valued  her  ;  sure, 
she  is  fit  to  be  a  queen.  I  have  a  remorse  here  at 
my  heart  to  which  I  am  a  stranger.  Oh  !  that  was  a 
brave  life,    that  was  a  great  heart  that  I  have  ruined. 

Fenwick.   Ay,  sir,  indeed. 

Austin.  But,  sir,  it  is  not  to  lament  the  irretriev- 
able that  I  intrude  myself  upon  your  leisure.  There 
is  something  to  be  done,  to  save,  at  least  to  spare,^ 
that  lady.     You  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  brother  ? 

Fenwick.  No,  sir,  he  knows  all  ;  and  being  both 
intemperate  and  ignorant 

Austin.  Surely.  I  know.  I  have  to  ask  you 
then  to  find  what  friends  you  can  among  this 
company  ;  and  if  you  have  none,  to  make  them.  Let 
everybody  hear  the  news.  Tell  it  (if  I  may  offer  the 
suggestion)  with  humour  :  how  Mr.  Austin,  somewhat 
upon  the  wane,  but  still  filled  with  sufficiency, 
gloriously  presumed  and  was  most  ingloriously  set 
down  by  a  young  lady  from  the  north  :  the  lady's 
name  a  secret,  which  you  will  permit  to  be  divined. 
172 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

The  laugh — the  position  of  the  hero— will  make  it         IV 
circulate  ; — you  perceive  I  am  in  earnest  ; — and  in      gc    -, 
this  way  I  believe  our  young  friend  will  find  himself 
forestalled. 

Fenwick.  Mr.  Austin,  I  would  not  have  dared  to 
ask  so  much  of  you  ;  I  will  go  further  :  were  the 
positions  changed,  I  should  fear  to  follow  your 
example. 

Austin.  Child,  child,  you  could  not  afford  it. 

SCENE    IV 

To  these,  the  Royal  Duke,  C.  ;  then,  immediately, 
Anthony,  L.  Fenwick  crosses  to  Miss  Foster, 
R.  Austin  accosts  the  Duke,  C,  in  dumb 
show ;  the  muted  strings  take  up  a  new  air, 
Mozart's  '  Anglaise1 ;  couples  passing  under  the 
limes,  and  forming  a  group  behind  AUSTIN  and 
the  Duke.  Anthony  in  front,  L.,  watches 
Austin,  who,  as  he  turns  from  the  Duke,  sees 
him,  and  comes  forward  with  extended  hand. 

Austin.  Dear  child,  let    me    present  you  to  his      Sc.  A. 
Royal  Highness. 

Anthony  [with  necklace).  Mr.  Austin,  do  you 
recognise  the  bribe  you  gave  my  sister's  maid  ? 

Austin.  Hush,  sir,  hush  !  you  forget  the  presence 
of  the  Duke. 

Anthony.  Mr.  Austin,  you  are  a  coward  and  a 
scoundrel. 

173 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

IV  Austin.   My  child,  you  will  regret  these  words  :   I 

Sc.  4      refuse  your  quarrel. 

Anthony.  You  do?  Take  that.  (He  strikes 
Austin  on  the  mouth.  At  the  moment  of  the 
blow ) 

SCENE    V 

To  these,  Dorothy,  L.  U.  E.     Dorothy,  unseen  by 
AUSTIN,  shrieks.   Sensation.    Music  stops.     Tableau. 

Sc.  5  Austin  (recovering  his  composure).     Your  Royal 

Highness,  suffer  me  to  excuse  the  disrespect  of  this 
young  gentleman.  He  has  so  much  apology,  and  1 
have,  I  hope,  so  good  a  credit,  as  incline  me  to 
accept  this  blow.  But  I  must  beg  of  your  Highness, 
and,  gentlemen,  all  of  you  here  present,  to  bear  with 
me  while  I  will  explain  what  is  too  capable  of  mis- 
construction. I  am  the  rejected  suitor  of  this  young- 
gentleman's  sister  ;  of  Miss  Dorothy  Musgrave  :  a 
lady  whom  I  singularly  honour  and  esteem  ;  a  word 
from  whom  (if  I  could  hope  that  word)  would  fill  my 
life  with  happiness.  I  was  not  worthy  of  that  lady  ; 
when  I  was  defeated  in  fair  field,  I  presumed  to 
make  advances  through  her  maid.  See  in  how 
laughable  manner  fate  repaid  me  !  The  waiting- 
girl  derided,  the  mistress  denied,  and  now  comes  in 
this  very  ardent  champion  who  publicly  insults  me. 
My  vanity  is  cured;  you  will  judge  it  right,  I 
am  persuaded,  all  of  you,  that  I  should  accept  my 
174 


BEAU     AUSTIN 

proper  punishment  in  silence  ;  you,  my  Lord  Duke,         IV 
to   pardon    this    young  gentleman ;     and    you,   Mr.      gc    r 
Musgrave,  to  spare  me  further  provocation,  which  I 
am  determined  to  ignore. 

Dorothy  {rushing forward,  falling  at  Austin's 
knees,  and  seizing  his  hand).  George,  George,  it 
was  for  me.     My  hero  !    take  me  !     What  you  will  ! 

Austin  {in  an  agony).  My  dear  creature,  remember 
that  we  are  in  public.  {Raising  her.)  Your  Royal 
Highness,  may  I  present  you  Mrs.  George  Frederick 
Austin?  {The  Curtain  falls  on  a  fexv  bars  of  the 
1  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill.') 


THE   END 


175 


ADMIRAL    GUINEA 


177 


DEDICATED 

WITH   AFFECTION    AND    ESTEEM 

TO    ANDREW    LANG    BY 

THE    SURVIVORS    OF 

T  H  E    IV A  L  R  US 


Savannah,  this  ■z-jth  day  of 
September  1884 


i8o 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

John  Gaunt,  called  'Admiral  Guinea,'  once  Captain  of  the  Slaver 
A  reth  itsa. 

ARETHUSA  Gaunt,  his  Daughter. 

David  Pew,  a  Blind  Beggar,  once  Boatswain  of  the  Aretkusa. 

Kit  FRENCH,  a  Privateersman. 

Mrs.  Drake,  Landlady  of  the  Admiral  Benboiv  Inn. 


The  Scene  is  laid  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Barnstaple.     The  Time  is 
about  the  year  1760.     The  action  occupies  part  of  a  day  and  night. 


Note. — Passages  suggested  for  omission  in  representation  are 
enclosed  in  square  brackets,  thus  [    ]. 


ADMIRAL    GUINEA 


ACT    I 

The  Stage   represents  a    room  in   Admiral  Guinea's  house  :   fire- 
place, arm-chair,  and  table  with  Bible;  L.,  towards  the  front  ;  door 
C,  with  window  on  each  side,  the  window  on  the  R.,  practicable  ; 
doors,  R.  and  L.,  back;  comer  cupboard,  a  brass-strapped  sea-chest 
fixed  to  the   wall  and  floor,    R.;     cutlasses,   telescopes,   sextant, 
quadrant,  a    calendar,    and  several  maps  upon   the  wall ;  a    ship 
clock;  three  wooden  chnirs  ;  a  dresser  against  wall,  R.  C;  on  the 
chimney-piece  the  model  of  a  brig  and  several  shells.     The 
centre  bare  of  furniture.     Through  the  windows 
and  the  door,  which  is  open,  green  trees 
and  a  small  field  of  sea. 

SCENE    I 
Arethusa  is  discovered,  dusting  t 

ARETHUSA.  Ten  months  and  a  week  to-day !  Sc.  I 
Now  for  a  new  mark.  Since  the  last,  the  sun  has  set 
and  risen  over  the  fields  and  the  pleasant  trees  at 
home,  and  on  Kit's  lone  ship  and  the  empty  sea. 
Perhaps  it  blew  ;  perhaps  rained  ;  (at  the  chart) 
perhaps  he  was  far  up  here  to  the  nor'ard,  where  the 

181 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

icebergs  sail  ;  perhaps  at  anchor  among  these  wild 
Cp  j  islands  of  the  snakes  and  buccaneers.  O,  you  big 
chart,  if  I  could  see  him  sailing  on  you  !  North  and 
South  Atlantic;  such  a  weary  sight  of  water  and  no 
land  ;  never  an  island  for  the  poor  lad  to  land  upon. 
But  still,  God's  there.  [She  takes  down  the  telescope 
to  dust  it.)  Father's  spy-glass  again  ;  and  my  poor 
Kit  perhaps  with  such  another,  sweeping  the  great 
deep ! 

SCENE    II 

Arethusa  ;  to  her  Kit,    C.     [He  enters  on  tiptoe, 
and  she  does  not  see  or  hear  hivi\ 

Sc.  2         Arethusa  [dusting  telescope).  At  sea  they  have 
less  dust  at  least  :  that's  so  much  comfort. 

Kit.   Sweetheart,  ahoy  ! 

Arethusa.  Kit ! 

Kit.  Arethusa. 

Arethusa.   My  Kit !     Home  again — O  my  love  ! 
— home  again  to  me  ! 

Kit.  As  straight  as  wind  and  tide  could  carry  me  ! 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  my  dearest.     O  Kit — O  !  O  ! 

Kit.  Hey  ?     Steady,  lass  :     steady,    I    say.     For 
goodness'  sake,  ease  it  off. 

Arethusa.  I  will,  Kit — I  will.     But  you  came  so 
sudden. 

Kit.  I  thought  ten  months  of  it  about  preparation 
enough. 
182 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Arethusa.  Ten  months  and  a  week  :  you  haven't 
counted  the  days  as  I  have.     Another  day  gone,  and      gc    ~ 
one  day  nearer  to  Kit  :  that  has  been  my  almanac. 
How  brown  you  are  !  how  handsome  ! 

Kit.  A  pity  you  can't  see  yourself!  Well,  no,  I'll 
never  be  handsome  :  brown  I  may  be,  never  hand- 
some. But  I'm  better  than  that,  if  the  proverb's 
true  ;  for  I'm  ten  hundred  thousand  fathoms  deep  in 
love.  I  bring  you  a  faithful  sailor.  What  !  you 
don't  think  much  of  that  for  a  curiosity  ?  Well, 
that's  so  :  you're  right  ;  the  rarity  is  in  the  girl 
that's  worth  it  ten  times  over.  Faithful  ?  I  couldn't 
help  it  if  I  tried !  No,  sweetheart,  and  I  fear 
nothing  :  I  don't  know  what  fear  is,  but  just  of  losing 
you.      {Starting.)     Lord,  that's  not  the  Admiral  ? 

Arethusa.  Aha,  Mr.  Dreadnought  !  you  see  you 
fear  my  father. 

Kit.  That  I  do.  But,  thank  goodness,  it's  nobody. 
Kiss  me  :  no,  I  won't  kiss  you  :  kiss  me.  I'll  give 
you  a  present  for  that.     See  ! 

Arethusa.  A  wedding-ring  ! 

Kit.  My  mother's.     Will  you  take  it  ? 

Arethusa.  Yes,  will  I — and  give  myself  for  it. 

KIT.  Ah,  if  we  could  only  count  upon  your  father  ! 
He's  a  man  every  inch  of  him  ;  but  he  can't  endure 
Kit  French. 

Arethusa.  He  hasn't  learned  to  know  you,  Kit,  as 
I  have,  nor  yet  do  you  know  him.  He  seems  hard 
and  violent ;  at  heart  he  is  only  a  man  overwhelmed 

183 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

with  sorrow.  Why  else,  when  he  looks  at  me  and 
Sc.  2  does  not  know  that  I  observe  him,  should  his  face 
change,  and  fill  with  such  tenderness,  that  I  could 
weep  to  see  him  ?  Why,  when  he  walks  in  his  sleep, 
as  he  does  almost  every  night,  his  eyes  open  and 
beholding  nothing,  why  should  he  cry  so  pitifully  on 
my  mother's  name  ?  Ah,  if  you  could  hear  him  then, 
you  would  say  yourself :  here  is  a  man  that  has  loved  ; 
here  is  a  man  that  will  be  kind  to  lovers. 

Kit.  Is  that  so  ?  Ay,  it's  a  hard  thing  to  lose  your 
wife  ;  ay,  that  must  cut  the  heart  indeed.  But  for  all 
that,  my  lass,  your  father  is  keen  for  the  doubloons. 

Arethusa.  Right,  Kit  :  and  small  blame  to  him. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  be  honest,  and  the  name  of 
that  is  thrift. 

Kit.  Well,  and  that's  my  motto.  I've  left  the 
ship  ;  no  more  letter  of  marque  for  me.  Good-bye  to 
Kit  French,  privateersman's  mate  ;  and  how-d'ye-do 
to  Christopher,  the  coasting  skipper.  I've  seen  the 
very  boat  for  me  :  I've  enough  to  buy  her,  too  ;  and 
to  furnish  a  good  house,  and  keep  a  shot  in  the  locker 
for  bad  luck.  So  far,  there's  nothing  to  gainsay.  So 
far  it's  hopeful  enough  ;  but  still  there's  Admiral 
Guinea,  you  know — and  the  plain  truth  is  that  I'm 
afraid  of  him. 

Arethusa.  Admiral  Guinea  ?    Now  Kit,  if  you  are 

to  be  true  lover  of  mine,  you  shall  not  use  that  name. 

His  name  is  Captain  Gaunt.    As  for  fearing  him,  Kit 

French,  you're  not  the  man  for  me,  if  you  fear  any- 

184 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

thing  but  sin.     He's  a  stern  man  because  he's  in  the 

right.  Sc    2 

Kit.  He  is  a  man  of  God  ;  I  am  what  he  calls  a 
child  of  perdition.  I  was  a  privateersman — serving 
my  country,  I  say  ;  but  he  calls  it  pirate.  He  is 
thrifty  and  sober  ;  he  has  a  treasure,  they  say,  and  it 
lies  so  near  his  heart  that  he  tumbles  up  in  his  sleep 
to  stand  watch  over  it.  What  has  a  harum-scarum 
dog  like  me  to  expect  from  a  man  like  him  ?  He 
won't  see  I'm  starving  for  a  chance  to  mend  ;  '  Mend,' 
he'll  say  ;  '  I'll  be  shot  if  you  mend  at  the  expense  of 
my  daughter  ; '  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  you  see,  he'll 
be  right. 

Arethusa.  Kit,  if  you  dare  to  say  that  faint- 
hearted word  again,  I'll  take  my  ring  off.  What 
are  we  here  for  but  to  grow  better  or  grow  worse  ? 
Do  you  think  Arethusa  French  will  be  the  same  as 
Arethusa  Gaunt  ? 

Kit.   I  don't  want  her  better. 

Arethusa.  Ah,  but  she  shall  be  ! 

Kit.  Hark,  here  he  is  !  By  George,  it's  neck  or 
nothing  now.     Stand  by  to  back  me  up. 

SCENE    III 

To  these,  GAUNT,  C. 

Kit  {with  Arethusa's  hand).  Captain  Gaunt,  I      gc   ? 
have  come  to  ask  you  for  your  daughter. 
Gaunt.  Hum.     {He  sits  in  his  chair,  L.) 

185 


o 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Kit.  I  love  her,  and  she  loves  mc,  sir.  I've  left  the 
Cq  *,  privateering.  I've  enough  to  set  me  up  and  buy  a 
tidy  sloop — Jack  Lee's  ;  you  know  the  boat,  Captain  ; 
clinker  built,  not  four  years  old,  eighty  tons  burthen, 
steers  like  a  child.  I've  put  my  mother's  ring  on 
Arethusa's  finger  ;  and  if  you'll  give  us  your  blessing, 
I'll  engage  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  make  her  a 
good  husband. 

Gaunt.   In  whose  strength,  Christopher  French  ? 

Kit.  In  the  strength  of  my  good,  honest  love  for 
her  :  as  you  did  for  her  mother,  and  my  father  for 
mine.  And  you  know,  Captain,  a  man  can't  command 
the  wind  ;  but  (excuse  me,  sir)  he  can  always  lie  the 
best  course  possible,  and  that's  what  I'll  do,  so  God 
help  me. 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  you  at  least  are  the  child  of 
many  prayers  ;  your  eyes  have  been  unsealed  ;  and 
to  you  the  world  stands  naked,  a  morning  watch  for 
duration,  a  thing  spun  of  cobwebs  for  solidity.  In  the 
presence  of  an  angry  God,  I  ask  you  :  have  you  heard 
this  man  ? 

Arethusa.  Father,  I  know  Kit,  and  I  love  him. 

Gaunt.  I  say  it  solemnly,  this  is  no  Christian 
union.  To  you,  Christopher  French,  I  will  speak 
nothing  of  eternal  truths  ;  I  will  speak  to  you  the 
lansruase  of  this  world.  You  have  been  trained 
among  sinners  who  gloried  in  their  sin  :  in  your 
whole  life  you  never  saved  one  farthing  ;  and  now, 
when  your  pockets  are  full,  you  think  you  can  begin, 
1 86 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

poor  dupe,  in  your  own  strength.  You  are  a  roysterer, 
a  jovial  companion  ;  you  mean  no  harm — you  are  C~  ^ 
nobody's  enemy  but  your  own.  No  doubt  you  tell 
this  girl  of  mine,  and  no  doubt  you  tell  yourself,  that 
you  can  change.  Christopher,  speaking  under  correc- 
tion, I  defy  you  !  You  ask  me  for  this  child  of  many 
supplications,  for  this  brand  plucked  from  the  burn- 
ing :  I  look  at  you  ;  I  read  you  through  and  through  ; 
and  I  tell  you — no  !     [Striking  table  with  his  fist.) 

Kit.  Captain  Gaunt,  if  you  mean  that  I  am  not 
worthy  of  her,  I'm  the  first  to  say  so.  But,  if  you'll 
excuse  me,  sir,  I'm  a  young  man,  and  young  men  are 
no  better'n  they  ought  to  be  ;  it's  known ;  they're  all 
like  that ;  and  what's  their  chance  ?  To  be  married 
to  a  girl  like  this  !  And  would  you  refuse  it  to  me  ? 
Why,  sir,  you  yourself,  when  you  came  courting,  you 
were  young  and  rough ;  and  yet  I'll  make  bold  to  say 
that  Mrs.  Gaunt  was  a  happy  woman,  and  the  saving 
of  yourself  into  the  bargain.  Well,  now,  Captain 
Gaunt,  will  you  deny  another  man,  and  that  man  a 
sailor,  the  very  salvation  that  you  had  yourself? 

Gaunt.  Salvation,  Christopher  French,  is  from 
above. 

Kit.  Well,  sir,  that  is  so  ;  but  there's  means,  too ; 
and  what  means  so  strong  as  the  wife  a  man  has  to 
strive  and  toil  for,  and  that  bears  the  punishment 
whenever  he  goes  wrong  ?  Now,  sir,  I've  spoke  with 
your  old  shipmates  in  the  Guinea  trade.  Hard  as 
nails,  they  said,  and  true  as  the  compass  :  as  rough 

187 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

as  a  slaver,  but  as  just  as  a  judge.  Well,  sir,  you 
Cc  ^  hear  me  plead  :  I  ask  you  for  my  chance  ;  don't  you 
deny  it  to  me. 

Gaunt.  You  speak  of  me  ?  In  the  true  balances 
we  both  weigh  nothing.  But  two  things  I  know  :  the 
depth  of  iniquity,  how  foul  it  is  ;  and  the  agony  with 
which  a  man  repents.  Not  until  seven  devils  were 
cast  out  of  me  did  I  awake  ;  each  rent  me  as  it 
passed.  Ay,  that  was  repentance.  Christopher, 
Christopher,  you  have  sailed  before  the  wind  since 
first  you  weighed  your  anchor,  and  now  you  think  tb 
sail  upon  a  bowline  ?  You  do  not  know  your  ship, 
young  man  :  you  will  go  to  le'ward  like  a  sheet  of 
paper  ;  I  tell  you  so  that  know — I  tell  you  so  that 
have  tried,  and  failed,  and  wrestled  in  the  sweat  of 
prayer,  and  at  last,  at  last,  have  tasted  grace.  But, 
meanwhile,  no  flesh  and  blood  of  mine  shall  lie  at  the 
mercy  of  such  a  wretch  as  I  was  then,  or  as  you  are 
this  day.  I  could  not  own  the  deed  before  the  face 
of  heaven  if  I  sanctioned  this  unequal  yoke.  Arethusa, 
pluck  off  that  ring  from  off  your  finger.  Christopher 
French,  take  it,  and  go  hence. 

Kit.  Arethusa,  what  do  you  say  ? 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  you  know  my  heart.  But  he  is 
alone,  and  I  am  his  only  comfort  ;  and  I  owe  all  to 
him  ;  and  shall  I  not  obey  my  father  ?  But,  Kit,  if 
you  will  let  me,  I  will  keep  your  ring.  Go,  Kit  ;  go, 
and  prove  to  my  father  that  he  was  mistaken  ;  go  and 
win  me.  And  O,  Kit,  if  ever  you  should  weary,  come 
1 88 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

to  me — no,  do  not  come  !  but  send  a  word — and  I  I 

shall  know  all,  and  you  shall  have  your  ring.  (Gaunt      gc    -, 
opens  his  Bible  and  begins  to  read.) 

Kit.  Don't  say  that,  don't  say  such  things  to  me  ; 
I  sink  or  swim  with  you.  {To  GAUNT.)  Old  man, 
you've  struck  me  hard  ;  give  me  a  good  word  to  go 
with.  Name  your  time  ;  I'll  stand  the  test.  Give 
me  a  spark  of  hope,  and  I'll  fight  through  for  it.  Say 
just  this  —  '  Prove  I  was  mistaken,'  and  by  George, 
I'll  prove  it. 

Gaunt  (looking  up).  I  make  no  such  compacts. 
Go,  and  swear  not  at  all. 

Arethusa.  Go,  Kit !  I  keep  the  ring. 

SCENE    IV 
Arethusa,  Gaunt 

Arethusa.  Father,  what  have  we  done  that  you      J$C.  A. 
should  be  so  cruel  ? 

Gaunt  (laying  down  Bible,  and,  rising).  Do  you 
call  me  cruel  ?  You  speak  after  the  flesh.  I  have 
done  you  this  day  a  service  that  you  will  live  to  bless 
me  for  upon  your  knees. 

Arethusa.  He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him  :  you  can 
never  alter  that  ;  do  what  you  will,  father,  that  can 
never  change.  I  love  him,  I  believe  in  him,  I  will  be 
true  to  him. 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  you  are  the  sole  thing  death  has 

189 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

left  me  on  this  earth  ;  and  I  must  watch  over  your 
5c.  4  carnal  happiness  and  your  eternal  weal.  You  do  not 
know  what  this  implies  to  me.  Your  mother— my 
Hester — tongue  cannot  tell,  nor  heart  conceive  the 
pangs  she  suffered.  If  it  lies  in  me,  your  life  shall 
not  be  lost  on  that  same  reef  of  an  ungodly  husband. 
{Goes  out,  C.) 

SCENE   V 

Arethusa 


Sc.  5 


Arethusa.  I  thought  the  time  dragged  long  and 
weary  when  I  knew  that  Kit  was  homeward  bound, 
all  the  white  sails  a-blowing  out  towards  England, 
and  my  Kit's  face  turned  this  way  ?  [She  begins  to 
dust.)  Sure,  if  my  mother  were  here,  she  would 
understand  and  help  us  ;  she  would  understand  a 
young  maid's  heart,  though  her  own  had  never  an 
ache  ;  and  she  would  love  my  Kit.  (Putting  back 
the  telescope.)  To  think  she  died  :  husband  and  child 
— and  so  much  love — she  was  taken  from  them  all. 
Ah,  there  is  no  parting  but  the  grave  !  And  Kit  and 
I  both  live,  and  both  love  each  other ;  and  here  am  I 
cast  down  ?  O,  Arethusa,  shame!  And  your  love 
home  from  the  deep  seas,  and  loving  you  still  ;  and 
the  sun  shining  ;  and  the  world  all  full  of  hope  ?  O, 
hope,  you're  a  good  word  ! 


190 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

SCENE   VI 
Arethusa  ;  to  her,  Pew 


I 


Pew  {singing  without)—  Sc.  6 

'  Time  for  us  to  go  ! 
Time  for  us  to  go  ! 
And  we'll  keep  the  brig  three  p'ints  away, 
For  it's  time  for  us  to  go.' 

Arethusa.  Who  comes  here  ?  a  seaman  by  his 
song,  and  father  out !  [She  tries  the  air)  '  Time  for 
us  to  go  !  '  It  sounds  a  wild  kind  of  song.  {Tap- 
tap  ;  Pew  passes  the  window.)  O,  what  a  face,  and 
blind  ! 

Pew  {entering).  Kind  Christian  friends,  take  pity 
on  a  poor  blind  mariner,  as  lost  his  precious  sight 
in  the  defence  of  his  native  country,  England,  and 
God  bless  King  George! 

Arethusa.  What  can  I  do  for  you,  sailor  ? 

Pew.  Good  Christian  lady,  help  a  poor  blind 
mariner  to  a  mouthful  of  meat.  I've  served  His 
Majesty  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe  ;  I've  spoke 
with  'Awke  and  glorions  Anson,  as  I  might  with  you  ; 
and  I've  tramped  it  all  night  long,  upon  my  sinful 
feet,  and  with  a  empty  belly. 

ARETHUSA.  You  shall  not  ask  bread  and  be  denied 
by  a  sailor's  daughter  and  a  sailor's  sweetheart  ;  and 
when  my  father  returns  he  shall  give  you  something 
to  set  you  on  your  road. 

191 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.  Kind  and  lovely  lady,  do  you  tell  me  that 

Sc  6  y°u  are  'n  a  manner  °f  speaking  alone  ?  or  do  my 
ears  deceive  a  poor  blind  seaman  ? 

Arethusa.  I  live  here  with  my  father,  and  my 
father  is  abroad. 

Pew.  Dear,  beautiful,  Christian  lady,  tell  a  poor 
blind  man  your  honoured  name,  that  he  may  re- 
member it  in  his  poor  blind  prayers. 

Arethusa.  Sailor,  I  am  Arethusa  Gaunt. 

Pew.  Sweet  lady,  answer  a  poor  blind  man  one 
other  question  :  are  you  in  a  manner  of  speaking 
related  to  Cap'n  John  Gaunt  ?  Cap'n  John  as  in  the 
ebony  trade  were  known  as  Admiral  Guinea  ? 

Arethusa.  Captain  John  Gaunt  is  my  father. 

Pew  {dropping  the  blind  man's  whine).  Lord, 
think  of  that  now  !  They  told  me  this  was  where  he 
lived,  and  so  it  is.  And  here's  old  Pew,  old  David 
Pew,  as  was  the  Admiral's  own  bo'sun,  colloguing  in 
his  old  commander's  parlour,  with  his  old  com- 
mander's gal  {seizes  Arethusa).  Ah,  and  a  bouncer 
you  are,  and  no  mistake. 

Arethusa.  Let  me  go !  how  dare  you  ? 

Pew.  Lord  love  you,  don't  you  struggle,  now, 
don't  you  ?  {She  escapes  into  front  R.  corner,  where 
he  keeps  her  imprisoned.)  Ah,  well,  we'll  get  you 
again,  my  lovely  woman.  What  a  arm  you've  got — 
great  god  of  love — and  a  face  like  a  peach  !  I'm  a 
judge,  I  am.  (She  tries  to  escape  j  he  stops  her.) 
No,  you  don't ;  O,  I  can  hear  a  flea  jump  !  [But  it's 
192 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

here  where  I  miss  my  deadlights.     Poor  old  Pew  ; 

him  as  the  ladies  always  would  have  for  their  fancy      C„   g 

man  and  take  no  denial  ;   here  you  are    with    your 

commander's  daughter  close  aboard,  and  you  can't 

so   much    as   guess    the    colour  of  her  lovely  eyes. 

{Singing)— 

'  Be  they  black  like  ebony, 
Or  be  they  blue  like  to  the  sky.' 

Black  like  the  Admiral's  ?  or  blue  like  his  poor  dear 
wife's  ?  Ah,  I  was  fond  of  that  there  woman,  I  was: 
the  Admiral  was  jealous  of  me.]  Arethusa,  my  dear, 
— my  heart,  what  a  'and  and  arm  you  have  got ;  I'll 
dream  o'  that  'and  and  arm,  I  will  ! — but  as  I  was 
a-saying,  does  the  Admiral  ever  in  a  manner  ot 
speaking  refer  to  his  old  bo'sun  David  Pew  ?  him  as 
he  fell  out  with  about  the  black  woman  at  Lagos,  and 
almost  slashed  the  shoulder  off  of  him  one  morning 
before  breakfast  ? 

Arethusa.  You  leave  this  house. 

Pew.  Hey?  {He  closes  and  seizes  her  again.)  Don't 
you  fight,  my  lovely  one  :  now  don't  make  old  blind 
Pew  forget  his  manners  before  a  female.  What ! 
you  will  ?  Stop  that,  or  I'll  have  the  arm  right  out 
of  your  body.     {He gives  her  arm  a  wrench.) 

Arethusa.  O  !  help,  help  ! 

Pew.  Stash  your  patter,  damn  you.  (Arethusa 
gives  in.)  Ah,  I  thought  it  :  Pew's  way,  Pew's  way. 
Now,  look  you  here,  my  lovely  woman.  If  you  sling 
in  another  word  that  isn't  in  answer  to  my  questions, 

193 


ADMIFAL     GUINEA 

I'll  pull  your  j'ints    out    one   by  one.     Where's  the 
Cp   g      Commander  ? 

Arethusa.  I  have  said  :  he  is  abroad. 

Pew.   When's  he  coming  aboard  again  ? 

Arethusa.  At  any  moment. 

Pew.   Does  he  keep  his  strength  ? 

Arethusa.  You'll  see  when  he  returns.  (He 
wrenches  her  arm  again.)     Ah  ! 

Pew.  Is  he  still  on  piety  ? 

Arethusa.  O,  he  is  a  Christian  man  ! 

Pew.  A  Christian  man,  is  he  ?  Where  does  he 
keep  his  rum  ? 

Arethusa.  Nay,  you  shall  steal  nothing  by  my 
help. 

Pew.  No  more  I  shall  (becoming  amorous).  You're 
a  lovely  woman,  that's  what  you  are  ;  how  would 
you  like  old  Pew  for  a  sweetheart,  hey  ?  He's  blind, 
is  Pew,  but  strong  as  a  lion  ;  and  the  sex  is  his  'ole 
delight.  Ah,  them  beautiful,  beautiful  lips  !  A  kiss  ! 
Come  ! 

Arethusa.  Leave  go,  leave  go  ! 

Pew.   Hey  ?  you  would  ? 

Arethusa.  Ah  !  (She  thrusts  him  down,  and 
escapes  to  door,  R.) 

SCENE    VII 

Sc.  7         PEW  (picking  himself  up).     Ah,  she's  a  bouncer, 
she   is !      Where's    my    stick  ?      That's    the    sort  of 
194 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

female  for  David  Pew.  Didn't  she  fight  ?  and  didn't 
she  struggle?  and  shouldn't  I  like  to  twist  her  lovely  Qq  7 
neck  for  her  ?  Pew's  way  with  'em  all  :  the  prettier 
they  was,  the  uglier  he  were  to  'em.  Pew's  way  :  a 
way  he  had  with  him  ;  and  a  damned  good  way  too. 
{Listens  at  L.  door.)  That's  her  bedroom,  I  reckon  ; 
and  she's  double-locked  herself  in.  Good  again  : 
it's  a  crying  mercy  the  Admiral  didn't  come  in.  But 
you  always  loses  your  'ed,  Pew,  with  a  female  :  that's 
what  charms  'em.  Now  for  business.  The  front 
door.  No  bar  ;  on'y  a  big  lock  (trying  keys  from  his 
pocket).  Key  one  ;  no  go.  Key  two  ;  no  go.  Key 
three  ;  ah,  that  does  it.  Ah  !  (feeling  key)  him  with 
the  three  wards  and  the  little  'un  :  good  again  ! 
Now  if  I  could  only  find  a  mate  in  this  rotten  country 
'amlick  :  one  to  be  eyes  to  me  ;  I  can  steer,  but  I 
can't  conn  myself,  worse  luck  !  If  I  could  only  find 
a  mate  !  And  to-night,  about  three  bells  in  the 
middle  watch,  old  Pew  will  take  a  little  cruise,  and 
lay  aboard  his  ancient  friend  the  Admiral  ;  or, 
barring  that,  the  Admiral's  old  sea-chest — the  chest 
he  kept  the  shiners  in  aboard  the  brig.  Where  is  it, 
I  wonder  ?  in  his  berth,  or  in  the  cabin  here  ?  It's 
big  enough,  and  the  brass  bands  is  plain  to  feel 
by.  (Searching  about  with  stick.)  Dresser— chair 
—  (knocking  his  head  on  the  cupboard.)  Ah  ! — O, 
corner  cupboard.  Admiral's  chair — Admiral's  table 
— Admiral's — hey  !  what's  this  ? — a  book — sheepskin 
— smells  like    a    'oly    Bible.     Chair  (his   stick  just 

195 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

avoids  the  chest).  No  sea-chest.  I  must  have  a 
c„  ~  mate  to  see  for  me,  to  see  for  old  Pew:  him  as 
had  eyes  like  a  eagle !  Meanwhile,  rum.  Corner 
cupboard,  of  course  (tap-tapping).  Rum — rum — rum. 
Hey  ?  (He  tistens.)  Footsteps.  Is  it  the  Admiral  ? 
(With  the  whine.)     Kind  Christian  friends 

SCENE    VIII 
PEW  ;    to  him  GAUNT 

Cr   o  GAUNT.  What  brings  you  here  ? 

Pew.  Cap'n,  do  my  ears  deceive  me  ?  or  is  this  my 
old  commander  ? 

Gaunt.  My  name  is  John  Gaunt.  Who  are  you, 
my  man,  and  what's  your  business  ? 

Pew.  Here's  the  facks,  so  help  me.  A  lovely 
female  in  this  house,  was  Christian  enough  to  pity 
the  poor  blind  ;  and  lo  and  be'old  !  who  should  she 
turn  out  to  be  but  my  old  commander's  daughter  ! 
'  My  dear,'  says  I  to  her,  '  I  was  the  Admiral's  own 
particular  bo'sun.' — '  La,  sailor,'  she  says  to  me, '  how 
glad  he'll  be  to  see  you  !  ' — '  Ah,'  says  I,  '  won't  he 
just — that's  all.' — '  I'll  go  and  fetch  him,'  she  says  ; 
'  you  make  yourself  at  'ome.'  And  off  she  went  ; 
and,  Commander,  here  I  am. 

Gaunt  (sitting  down).  Well  ? 

Pew.  Well,  Cap'n  ? 

Gaunt.  What  do  you  want  ? 

Pew.  Well,  Admiral,  in  a  general  way,  what  I 
196 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

want  in  a  manner  of  speaking  is  money  and  rum.  I 

(A  pause.)  Sc.  8 

Gaunt.  David  Pew,  I  have  known  you  a  long 
time. 

Pew.  And  so  you  have  ;  aboard  the  old  Arethnsa; 
and  you  don't  seem  that  cheered  up  as  I'd  looked 
for,  with  an  old  shipmate  dropping  in,  one  as  has 
been  seeking  you  two  years  and  more — and  blind  at 
that.     Don't  you  remember  the  old  chantie  ?— 

'  Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go.' 

What  a  note  you  had  to  sing,  what  a  swaller  for  a 
pannikin  of  rum,  and  what  a  fist  for  the  shiners ! 
Ah,  Cap'n,  they  didn't  call  you  Admiral  Guinea  for 
nothing.  I  can  see  that  old  sea-chest  of  yours — her 
with  the  brass  bands,  where  you  kept  your  gold  dust 
and  doubloons :  you  know  ! — I  can  see  her  as  well 
this  minute  as  though  you  and  me  was  still  at  it 
playing  put  on  the  lid  of  her.  .  .  .  You  don't  .say 
nothing,  Cap'n?  .  .  .  Well,  here  it  is  :  I  want  money 
and  I  want  rum.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  want 
rum,  you  don't  :  it  gets  to  that  p'int,  that  you  would 
kill  a  'ole  ship's  company  for  just  one  guttle  of  it. 
What  ?  Admiral  Guinea,  my  old  Commander,  go 
back  on  poor  old  Pew  ?  and  him  high  and  dry  ? 
[Not  you  !  When  we  had  words  over  the  negro  lass 
at  Lagos,  what  did  you  do?  fair  dealings  was  your 

197 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

word  :  fair  as  between  man  and  man  ;  and  we  had  it 
Cp  o  out  with  p'int  and  edge  on  Lagos  sands.  And  you're 
not  going  back  on  your  word  to  me,  now  I'm  old  and 
blind  ?  No,  no  !  belay  that,  I  say.  Give  me  the  old 
motto  :   Fair  dealings,  as  between  man  and  man.] 

Gaunt.  David  Pew,  it  were  better  for  you  that 
you  were  sunk  in  fifty  fathom.  I  know  your  life  ; 
and  first  and  last,  it  is  one  broadside  of  wickedness- 
You  were  a  porter  in  a  school,  and  beat  a  boy  to 
death  ;  you  ran  for  it,  turned  slaver,  and  shipped 
with  me,  a  green  hand.  Ay,  that  was  the  craft  for 
you  :  that  was  the  right  craft,  and  I  was  the  right 
captain  :  there  was  none  worse  that  sailed  to  Guinea. 
Well,  what  came  of  that?  In  five  years'  time  you 
made  yourself  the  terror  and  abhorrence  of  your 
messmates.  The  worst  hands  detested  you  ;  your 
captain — that  was  me,  John  Gaunt,  the  chief  of 
sinners — cast  you  out  for  a  Jonah.  [Who  was  it 
stabbed  the  Portuguese  and  made  off  inland  with  his 
miserable  wife  ?  Who,  raging  drunk  on  rum,  clapped 
fire  to  the  baracoons  and  burned  the  poor  soulless 
creatures  in  their  chains?]  Ay,  you  were  a  scandal 
to  the  Guinea  coast,  from  Lagos  down  to  Calabar  ? 
and  when  at  last  I  sent  you  ashore,  a  marooned  man 
— your  shipmates,  devils  as  they  were,  cheering  and 
rejoicing  to  be  quit  of  you — by  heaven,  it  was  a  ton's 
weight  off  the  brig  ! 

Pew.  Cap'n  Gaunt,  Cap'n  Gaunt,  these  are  ugly 
words. 
198 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

GAUNT.   What  next  ?     You  shipped  with  Flint  the  I 

Pirate.  What  you  did  then  I  know  not ;  the  deep  gc  g 
seas  have  kept  the  secret  :  kept  it,  ay,  and  will  keep 
against  the  Great  Day.  God  smote  you  with  blind- 
ness, but  you  heeded  not  the  sign.  That  was  His 
last  mercy  ;  look  for  no  more.  To  your  knees,  man, 
and  repent.  Pray  for  a  new  heart ;  flush  out  your 
sins  with  tears ;  flee  while  you  may  from  the  terrors 
of  the  wrath  to  come. 

Pew.  Now,  I  want  this  clear  :  Do  I  understand 
that  you're  going  back  on  me,  and  you'll  see  me 
damned  first  ? 

Gaunt.  Of  me  you  shall  have  neither  money  nor 
strong  drink  :  not  a  guinea  to  spend  in  riot ;  not  a 
drop  to  fire  your  heart  with  devilry. 

Pew.  Cap'n,  do  you  think  it  wise  to  quarrel  with 
me  ?  I  put  it  to  you  now,  Cap'n,  fairly  as  between 
man  and  man — do  you  think  it  wise  ? 

Gaunt.  I  fear  nothing.  My  feet  are  on  the  Rock. 
Begone  !     {He  opens  the  Bible  and  begins  to  read.) 

Pew  {after  a  pause).  Well,  Cap'n,  you  know  best, 
no  doubt;  and  David  Pew's  about  the  last  man, 
though  I  says  it,  to  up  and  thwart  an  old  Commander. 
You've  been  'ard  on  David  Pew,  Cap'n  :  'ard  on  the 
poor  blind ;  but  you'll  live  to  regret  it — ah,  my 
Christian  friend,  you'll  live  to  eat  them  words  up. 
But  there's  no  malice  here  :  that  ain't  Pew's  way  ; 
here's  a  sailor's  hand  upon  it.  .  .  .  You  don't  say 
nothing?     (Gaunt  turns  a  page.)     Ah,  reading,  was 

199 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

I  you?      Reading,   by    thunder!      Well,   here's    my 

cc   g     respecks  [singing) — 

'  Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
When  the  money's  out,  and  the  liquor's  done, 
Why,  it's  time  for  us  to  go.' 

(He  goes  tapping  up  to  door,  turns  on  the  threshold, 
and  listens.  GAUNT  turns  a  page.  Pew,  with  a 
grimace,  strikes  his  hand  upon  the  pocket  with  the 
keys,  and  goes.) 


Drop. 


200 


ACT  II 

The  Stage  represents  the  parlour  of  the  'Admiral  Benbo7i''  inn.  Fire- 
place, R.,  ■with  high-backed  settles  on  each  side  ;  in  front  of  these,  and 
facing  the  audience,  R.,  a  small  table  laid  with  a  cloth.     Tables,  L., 
with  glasses,  pipes,  etc.    Broadside  ballads  on  the  wall.    Outer  door 
of  inn,  with  half  door  in  L„  corner  back  ;  door,  R,,  beyond  the 
fire-place  ;   window  with  red  half-curtains  ;   spittoons  ; 
candles  on  both  the  front  tables  ;   night  without 

SCENE  I 

Pew;  afterwards  Mrs.  Drake,  out  and  in  u 

Pew  {entering) .    Kind  Christian  friends {listen-      Sc.  I 

ing;  then  droppi7ig  the  whine.)  Hey?  nobody! 
Hey  ?  A  grog-shop  not  two  cable-lengths  from  the 
Admiral's  back-door,  and  the  Admiral  not  there  ?  I 
never  knew  a  seaman  brought  so  low  :  he  ain't  but  the 
bones  of  the  man  he  used  to  be.  Bear  away  for  the 
New  Jerusalem,  and  this  is  what  you  run  aground  on, 
is  it  ?  Good  again  ;  but  it  ain't  Pew's  way  ;  Pew's 
way  is  rum. — Sanded  floor.  Rum  is  his  word,  and 
rum  his  motion. — Settle—  chimbley — settle  again — 
spittoon — table  rigged  for  supper.  Table — glass. 
{Drinks    heeltap.)       Brandy    and    water ;'    and    not 

201 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

enough  of  it  to  wet  your  eye  ;  damn  all  greediness, 
gc  j  I  say.  Pot  [drinks),  small  beer — a  drink  that  I  ab'or 
like  bilge!  What  I  want  is  rum.  (Calling,  and 
rapping  with  stick  on  table.)  Halloa,  there  !  House, 
ahoy  ! 

Mrs.    Drake    (without).     Coming,    sir,    coming. 

(She  enters,  R.)    What  can  I  do ?     (Seeing  Pew.) 

Well  I  never  did  !     Now,  beggar-man,  what's  for  you  ? 

[Pew.   Rum,  ma'am,  rum  ;  and  a  bit  o'  supper. 

Mrs.  Drake.  And  a  bed  to  follow,  I  shouldn't 
wonder ! 

Pew.  And  a.  bed  to  follow  :  if  yon  please.] 

Mrs.  Drake.  This  is  the  'Admiral  Benbow,'1  a 
respectable  house,  and  receives  none  but  decent 
company  ;  and  I'll  ask  you  to  go  somewhere  else, 
for  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  you. 

Pew.  Turn  me  away  ?  Why,  Lord  love  you,  I'm 
David  Pew — old  David  Pew — him  as  was  Benbow's 
own  particular  cox'n.  You  wouldn't  turn  away  old 
Pew  from  the  sign  of  his  late  commander's  'ed  ?  Ah, 
my  British  female,  you'd  have  used  me  different  if 
you'd  seen  me  in  the  fight !  [There  laid  old  Benbow, 
both  his  legs  shot  off,  in  a  basket,  and  the  blessed 
spy-glass  at  his  eye  to  that  same  hour  :  a  picter, 
ma'am,  of  naval  daring  :  when  a  round  shot  come, 
and  took  and  knocked  a  bucketful  of  shivers  right 
into  my  poor  daylights.  '  Damme,' says  the  Admiral, 
'is  that  old  Pew,  my  old  Pew  ?  '  he  snys. — '  It's  old 
Pew,  sir,'  says  the  first  lootenant,  '  worse  luck,'  he 
202 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

says. — 'Then    damme,'    says   Admiral    Benbow,  'if 
that's  how  they  serve  a  lion-'arted  seaman,  damme      Cp    j 
if  I  care  to  live,'  he  says  ;  and,  ma'am,  he  laid  down 
his  spy-glass.] 

Mrs.  Drake.  Blind  man,  I  don't  fancy  you,  and 
that's  the  truth;  and  I'll  thank  you  to  take  yourself  off. 

Pew.  Thirty  years  have  I  fought  for  country  and 
king,  and  now  in  my  blind  old  age  I'm  to  be  sent 
packing  from  a  measly  public  'ouse  ?  Mark  ye, 
ma'am,  if  I  go,  you  take  the  consequences.  Is  this  a 
inn?  Or  haint  it?  If  it  is  a  inn,  then  by  act  of 
parleyment,  I'm  free  to  sling  my  'ammick.  Don't 
you  forget:  this  is  a  act  of  parleyment  job,  this  is. 
You  look  out. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Why,  what's  to  do  with  the  man 
and  his  acts  of  parliament  ?  I  don't  want  to  fly  in  the 
face  of  an  act  of  parliament,  not  I.  If  what  you  say 
is  true 

Pew.  True  ?  If  there's  anything  truer  than  a  act 
of  parleyment — Ah!  you  ask  the  beak.  True?  I've 
that  in  my  'art  as  makes  me  wish  it  wasn't. 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  don't  like  to  risk  it.  I  don't  like 
your  looks,  and  you're  more  sea-lawyer  than  seaman 
to  my  mind.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  :  if  you  can  pay, 
you  can  stay.     So  there. 

Pew.  No  chink,  no  drink  ?  That's  your  motto,  is 
it  ?  Well,  that's  sense.  Now,  look  here,  ma'am,  I 
ain't  beautiful  like  you  ;  but  I'm  good,  and  I'll  give 
you  warrant  for  it.     Get  me  a  noggin  of  rum,  and 

20^ 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

suthin'  to  scoff,  and  a  penny  pipe,  and  a  half-a-foot 
CJq  j  of  baccy  ;  and  there's  a  guinea  for  the  reckoning. 
There's  plenty  more  in  the  locker  ;  so  bear  a  hand, 
and  be  smart.  I  don't  like  waiting  ;  it  ain't  my  way. 
(Exit  Mrs.  Drake,  R.  Pew  sits  at  the  tabic,  R. 
The  settle  conceals  him  from  all  the  upper  part  of the 
stage.) 

Mrs.  Drake  (re-entering).  Here's  the  rum,  sailor. 

Pew  (drinks).  Ah,  rum  !  That's  my  sheet-anchor: 
rum  and  the  blessed  Gospel.  Don't  you  forget  that, 
ma'am  :  rum  and  the  Gospel  is  old  Pew's  sheet- 
anchor.  You  can  take  for  another  while  you're  about 
it  ;  and,  I  say,  short  reckonings  make  long  friends, 
hey  ?     Where's  my  change  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  I'm  counting  it  now.  There,  there 
it  is,  and  thank  you  for  your  custom.  (She  goes 
out,  R.) 

Pew  (calling  after  her-).  Don't  thank  me,  ma'am  ; 
thank  the  act  of  parleyment !  Rum,  fourpence  ;  two 
penny  pieces  and  a  Willi'm-and-Mary  tizzy  makes  a 
shilling  ;  and  a  spade  half-guinea  is  eleven  and  six 
(re-enter  Mrs.  Drake  with  supper,  pipe,  etc.);  and  a 
blessed  majesty  George  the  First  crown-piece  makes 
sixteen  and  six  ;  and  two  shilling  bits  is  eighteen  and 
six  ;  and  a  new  half-crown  makes— no  it  don't !  O, 
no  !  Old  Pew's  too  smart  a  hand  to  be  bammed  with 
a  soft  half-tusheroon. 

Mrs.  Drake  (changing  piece).  I'm  sure  I  didn't 
know  it,  sailor. 
204 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew  (trying  new  coin  between  his  teeth).  In  course 
you  didn't,  my  dear  ;  but  I  did,  and  I  thought  I'd  gc  j 
mention  it.  Is  that  my  supper,  hey  ?  Do  my  nose 
deceive  me  ?  {Sniffing  and  feeling.)  Cold  duck  ?  sage 
and  onions?  a  round  of  double  Gloster  ?  and  that 
noggin  o'  rum?  Why,  I  declare  if  I'd  stayed  and 
took  pot-luck  with  my  old  commander,  Cap'n  John 
Gaunt,  he  couldn't  have  beat  this  little  spread,  as  I've 
got  by  act  of  parleyment. 

Mrs.  Drake  (at  knitting).  Do  you  know  the 
captain,  sailor  ? 

Pew.  Know  him?  I  was  that  man's  bo'sun,  ma'am. 
In  the  Guinea  trade,  we  was  known  as  '  Pew's  Cap'n,' 
and  '  Gaunt's  Bo'sun,'  one  for  other  like.  We  was 
like  two  brothers,  ma'am.  And  a  excellent  cold  duck, 
to  be  sure  ;  and  the  rum  lovely. 

Mrs.  Drake.  If  you  know  John  Gaunt,  you  know 
his  daughter  Arethusa. 

Pew.  What?  Arethusa?  Know  her,  says  you? 
know  her?  Why,  Lord  love  you,  I  was  her  god- 
father. [«  Pew,'  says  Jack  Gaunt  to  me,  '  Pew,'  he 
says,  '  you're  a  man,'  he  says  ;  '  I  like  a  man  to  be  a 
man,'  says  he,  '  and  damme,'  he  says,  '  I  like  you  ; 
and  sink  me,'  says  he, '  if  you  don't  promise  and  vow 
in  the  name  of  that  new-born  babe,'  he  says,  '  why 
damme,  Pew,'  says  he,  '  you're  not  the  man  I  take 
you  for.']  Yes,  ma'am,  I  named  that  female  ;  with 
my  own  'ands  I  did  ;  Arethusa,  I  named  her  ;  that 
was  the  name  I  give  her  ;  so  now  you  know  if  I  speak 

20; 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

true.     And  if  you'll  be  as  good  as  get  me  another 
c„    j      noggin  of  rum,  why,  we'll  drink  her 'elth  with  three 
times    three.     {Exit    Mrs.    Drake  :  Pew  eating. 
Mrs.  Drake  re-entering  with  rum.) 

[Mrs.  Drake.  If  what  you  say  be  true,  sailor  (and 
I  don't  say  it  isn't,  mind  !),  it's  strange  that  Arethusa 
and  that  godly  man  her  father  has  never  so  much  as 
spoke  your  name. 

Pew.  Why,  that's  so  !  And  why,  says  you  ?  Why, 
when  I  dropped  in  and  paid  my  respecks  this  morn- 
ing, do  you  think  she  knew  me  ?  No  more'n  a  babe 
unborn !  Why,  ma'am,  when  I  promised  and  vowed 
for  her,  I  was  the  picter  of  aman-o'-war's  man,  I  was  : 
eye  like  a  eagle  ;  walked  the  deck  in  a  hornpipe,  foot 
up  and  foot  down;  v'ice  as  mellow  as  rum  ;  'and  upon 
'art,  and  all  the  females  took  dead  aback  at  the  first 
sight,  Lord  bless  'em !  Know  me  ?  Not  likely. 
And  as  for  me,  when  I  found  her  such  a  lovely 
woman — by  the  feel  of  her  'and  and  arm  ! — you  might 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  But  here's 
where  it  is,  you  see  :  when  you've  been  knocking 
about  on  blue  water  for  a  matter  of  two  and  forty 
year,  shipwrecked  here,  and  blown  up  there,  and 
everywhere  out  of  luck,  and  given  over  for  dead  by  all 
your  messmates  and  relations,  why  what  it  amounts 
to  is  this  :  nobody  knows  you,  and  you  hardly  knows 
yourself,  and  there  you  are  ;  and  I'll  trouble  you  for 
another  noggin  of  rum. 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  think  you've  had  enough. 
206 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.     I    don't;    so   bear    a   hand.     (Exit    Mrs.  II 

Drake;  Pew  empties  the  glass.)  Rum,  ah,  rum,  gc>  j 
you're  a  lovely  creature  ;  they  haven't  never  done  you 
justice.  {Proceeds  to  Jill  and  light  pipe  j  re-enter 
Mrs.  Drake  with  rum.)]  And  now,  ma'am,  since 
you're  so  genteel  and  amicable-like,  what  about  my 
old  commander  ?  Is  he,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  on 
half  pay  ?  or  is  he  living  on  his  fortune,  like  a  gentle- 
man slaver  ought  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Well,  sailor,  people  talk,  you  know. 

Pew.  I  know,  ma'am  ;  I'd  have  been  rolling  in  my 
coach,  if  they'd  have  held  their  tongues. 

Mrs.  Drake.  And  they  do  say  that  Captain  Gaunt, 
for  so  pious  a  man,  is  little  better  than  a  miser. 

Pew.  Don't  say  it,  ma'am  ;  not  to  old  Pew.  Ah, 
how  often  have  I  up  and  strove  with  him  !  '  Cap'n, 
live  it  down,'  says  I.  'Ah,  Pew,' says  he,  'you're 
a  better  man  than  I  am,'  he  says  ;  '  but  damme,' 
he  says,  'money,'  he  says,  '  is  like  rum  to  me.'  (In- 
sinuating?) And  what  about  a  old  sea-chest,  hey  ? 
a  old  sea-chest,  strapped  with  brass  bands  ? 

MRS.  Drake.  Why,  that'll  be  the  chest  in  his 
parlour,  where  he  has  it  bolted  to  the  wall,  as  I've 
seen  with  my  own  eyes  ;  and  so  might  you,  if  you  had 
eyes  to  see  with. 

PEW.  No,  ma'am,  that  ain't  good  enough  ;  you 
don't  bam  old  Pew.  You  never  was  in  that  parlour 
in  your  life. 

Mrs.  Drake.  I    never   was  ?     Well,    I   declare ! 

207 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.  Well  then,  if  you  was,  where's  the  chest  ? 
Sc.  I  Beside  the  chimbley,  hey  ?  {Winking.)  Beside  the 
table  with  the  'oly  Bible  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  No,  sailor,  you  don't  get  any  infor- 
mation out  of  me. 

Pew.  What,  ma'am  ?  Not  to  old  Pew  ?  Why,  my 
god-child  showed  it  me  herself,  and  I  told  her  where 
she'd  find  my  name — P,  E,  W,  Pew — cut  out  on  the 
starn  of  it  ;  and  sure  enough  she  did.  Why,  ma'am, 
it  was  his  old  money-box  when  he  was  in  the  Guinea 
trade  ;  and  they  do  say  he  keeps  the  rhino  in  it  still. 

Mrs.  Drake.  No,  sailor,  nothing  out  ot  me  !  And 
if  you  want  to  know,  you  can  ask  the  Admiral  him- 
self!    {She  crosses,  L.) 

Pew.  Hey  ?  Old  girl  fly?  Then  I  reckon  I  must 
have  a  mate,  if  it  was  the  parish  bull. 

SCENE  II 

To  these,  Kit,  a  little  drunk 

Sc.  2  Kit    {looking   in   over   half- door).     Mrs.     Drake  ! 

Mother  !     Where  are  you  ?     Come  and  welcome  the 
prodigal ! 

Mrs.  Drake  {coming forward  to  meet  him  as  he 
enters  ;  Pew  remains  concealed  by  the  settle,  smoking, 
drinking,  and  listening).  Lord  bless  us  and  save  us, 
if  it  ain't  my  boy  !     Give  us  a  kiss. 

Kit.  That  I  will,  and  twenty  if  you  like,  old  girl. 
{Kisses  her.) 
208 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Mrs.  Drake.  O  Kit,   Kit,  you've  been    at  those         1 1 
other  houses,  where  the  stuff  they  give  you,  my  dear,      c„    ^ 
it  is  poison  for  a  dog. 

[Kit.  Round  with  friends,  mother  :  only  round 
with  friends. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Well,   anyway,  you'll  take  a  glass 

just  to  settle  it,  from  me.    (She  brings  the  bottle,  and 

fills  for  hint.)     There,  that's  pure  ;  that'll  do  you  no 

harm.]     But  O,  Kit,  Kit,  I  thought  you  were  done 

with  all  this  Jack-a-shoring. 

Kit.  What  cheer,  mother  ?  I'm  only  a  sheet  in 
the  wind  ;  and  who's  the  worse  for  it  but  me  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Ah,  and  that  dear  young  lady  ;  and 
her  waiting  and  keeping  single  these  two  years  for 
the  love  of  you  ! 

Kit.  She,  mother  ?  she's  heart  of  oak,  she's  true  as 
steel,  and  good  as  gold  ;  and  she  has  my  ring  on  her 
finger,  too.  But  where's  the  use  ?  The  Admiral 
won't  look  at  me. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Why  not?  You're  as  good  a  man 
as  him  any  day. 

Kit.  Am  I  ?  He  says  I'm  a  devil,  and  swears  that 
none  of  his  flesh  and  blood — that's  what  he  said, 
mother  ! — should  lie  at  my  mercy.  That's  what  cuts 
me.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  good  stuff  I've  been  taking 
aboard,  and  the  jolly  companions  I've  been  seeing  it 
out  with,  I'd  just  go  and  make  a  hole  in  the  water, 
and  be  done  with  it,  I  would,  by  George  ! 

Mrs.  Drake.  That's  like  you  men.    Ah,  we  know 

209 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

you,  we   that  keeps  a  public-house — we  know  you, 

C^c   2      good  and  bad  :  you  go  off  on  a  frolic  and  forget  ;  and 

you  never  think  of  the  women  that  sit  crying  at  home. 

Kit.  Crying?  Arethusacry?  Why,  dame,  she's 
the  bravest-hearted  girl  in  all  broad  England  !  Here, 
fill  the  glass  !  I'll  win  her  yet.  I  drink  to  her  ; 
here's  to  her  bright  eyes,  and  here's  to  the  blessed 
feet  she  walks  upon  ! 

Pew  {looking  round  the  corner  of  the  settle).  Spoke 
like  a  gallant  seaman,  every  inch.  Shipmate,  I'm  a 
man  as  has  suffered,  and  I'd  like  to  shake  your  fist, 
and  drink  a  can  of  flip  with  you. 

Kit  (coming  down).  Hullo,  my  hearty!  who  the 
devil  are  you  ?     Who's  this,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Drake.  Nay,  I  know  nothing  about  him. 
(She goes  out,  J?.) 

Pew.  Cap'n,  I'm  a  brother  seaman,  and  my  name 
is  Pew,  old  David  Pew,  as  you  may  have  heard  of  in 
your  time,  he  having  sailed  along  of  'Awke  and 
glorious  Benbow,  and  a  right  'and  man  to  both. 

Kit.  Benbow?  Steady,  mate  !  D'ye  mean  to  say 
you  went  to  sea  before  you  were  born  ? 

Pew.  See  now  !  The  sign  of  this  here  inn  was 
running  in  my  'ed,  I  reckon.  Benbow,  says  you  ?  no, 
not  likely  !  Anson,  I  mean  ;  Anson  and  Sir  Edward 
'Awke  :  that's  the  pair  :   I  was  their  right  'and   man. 

Kit.  Well,  mate,  you  may  be  all  that,  and  more  ; 
but  you're  a  rum  un  to  look  at,  anyhow. 

Pew.  Right  you  are,  and  so  I  am.  But  what  is 
210 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

looks  ?     It's  the  'art  that  does  it  :  the  'art  is  the  sea-         II 
man's  star  ;  and  here's  old  David  Pew's,  a  matter  of      gc>  2 
fifty  years  at  sea,  but  tough  and  sound  as  the  British 
Constitootion. 

Kit.  You're  right  there,  Pew.  Shake  hands  upon 
it.  And  you're  a  man  they're  down  upon,  just  like 
myself,  I  see.  We're  a  pair  of  plain,  good-hearted, 
jolly  tars  ;  and  all  these  'longshore  fellows  cock  a  lip 
at  us,  by  George.     What  cheer,  mate  ? 

Arethusa  {without).   Mrs.  Drake  !  Mrs.  Drake  ! 

Pew.  What,  a  female  ?  hey  ?  a  female  ?  Board  her, 
board  her,  mate  !  I'm  dark.  {He  retires  again  behind, 
to  tabic,  R.,  behind  settle.) 

Arethusa  [without).  Mrs.  Drake! 

Mrs.  Drake  {re-entering  and  running  to  door). 
Here  I  am,  my  dear ;  come  in. 

SCENE   III 
To  these,  Arethusa 

Arethusa.  Ah,  Kit,  I've  found   you.     I  thought     Sc.  3 
you  would  lodge  with  Mrs.  Drake. 

Kit.  What?  are  you  looking  for  your  consort? 
Whistle,  I'm  your  dog  ;  I'll  come  to  you.  I've  been 
toasting  you  fathom  deep,  my  beauty  ;  and  with  every 
glass  I  love  you  dearer. 

Arethusa.  Now  Kit,  if  you  want  to  please  my 
father,  this  is  not  the  way.     Perhaps  he  thinks  too 

211 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

much  of  the  guineas  :  well,  gather  them— if  you  think 
Cp  -  me  worth  the  price.  Go  you  to  your  sloop,  clinker 
built,  eighty  tons  burthen — you  see  I  remember, 
Skipper  Kit !  I  don't  deny  I  like  a  man  of  spirit  ; 
but  if  you  care  to  please  Captain  Gaunt,  keep  out  of 
taverns  ;  and  if  you  could  carry  yourself  a  bit  more — 
more  elderly  ! 

[Kit.  Can  I  ?  Would  I  ?  Ah,  just  couldn't  and 
just  won't  I,  then  ! 

Mrs.  Drake.  I  hope,  madam,  you  don't  refer  to 
my  house  ;  a  publican  I  may  be,  but  tavern  is  a  word 
that  I  don't  hold  with  ;  and  here  there's  no  bad  drink, 
and  no  loose  company  ;  and  as  for  my  blessedest  Kit, 
I  declare  I  love  him  like  my  own. 

Arethusa.  Why,  who  could  help  it,  Mrs.  Drake  ?] 

Kit.  Arethusa,  you're  an  angel.  Do  I  want  to 
please  Captain  Gaunt  ?  Why,  that's  as  much  as  ask 
whether  I  love  you.  [I  don't  deny  that  his  words  cut 
me  ;  for  they  did.  But  as  for  wanting  to  please  him, 
if  he  was  deep  as  the  blue  Atlantic,  I  would  beat 
it  out.  And  elderly,  too  ?  Aha,  you  witch,  you're 
wise !  Elderly  ?  You've  set  the  course  ;  you  leave 
me  alone  to  steer  it.  Matrimony's  my  port,  and  love 
is  my  cargo.]  That's  a  likely  question,  ain't  it,  Mrs. 
Drake  ?  Do  I  want  to  please  him  !  Elderly,  says 
you  ?  Why,  see  here  :  Fill  up  my  glass,  and  I'll 
drink  to  Arethusa  on  my  knees. 

Arethusa.  Why,  you  stupid  boy,  do  you  think 
that  would  please  him  ? 

212 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Kit.  On  my  knees  I'll  drink  it !   (As  he  kneels  and         \\ 
drains  the  glass,  Gaunt  enters,  and  he  scrambles  to     g^    -, 
his  feet.) 

SCENE    IV 
To  these,  Gaunt 

Gaunt.  Arethusa,  this  is  no  place  for  you.  Sc.  4 

Arethusa.  No, -father. 

Gaunt.  I  wish  you  had  been  spared  this  sight ; 
but  look  at  him,  child,  since  you  are  here  ;  look  at 
God's  image,  so  debased.  And  you,  young  man  [to 
Kit),  you  have  proved  that  I  was  right.  Are  you  the 
husband  for  this  innocent  maid  ? 

Kit.  Captain  Gaunt,  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you. 
Terror  is  your  last  word  ;  you're  bitter  hard  upon 
poor  sinners,  bitter  hard  and  black — you  that  were  a 
sinner  yourself.  These  are  not  the  true  colours  : 
don't  deceive  yourself  ;  you're  out  of  your  course. 

[Gaunt.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  be  hard, 
Christopher.  It  is  not  I  ;  it's  God's  law  that  is  of 
iron.  Think  !  if  the  blow  were  to  fall  now,  some  cord 
to  snap  within  you,  some  enemy  to  plunge  a  knife 
into  your  heart  ;  this  room,  with  its  poor  taper  light, 
to  vanish  ;  this  world  to  disappear  like  a  drowning 
man  into  the  great  ocean  ;  and  you,  your  brain  still 
whirling,  to  be  snatched  into  the  presence  of  the 
eternal  Judge  :  Christopher  French,  what  answer 
would  you  make  ?     For  these  gifts  wasted,  for  this 

213 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

rich  mercy  scorned,  for  these  high-handed  bravings 
Sc  A      °f  Your  better  angel, — what  have  you  to  say  ? 

Kit.  Well,  sir,  I  want  my  word  with  you,  and  by 
your  leave  I'll  have  it  out. 

Arethusa.  Kit,  for  pity's  sake  ! 

Kit.  Arethusa,  I  don't  speak  to  you,  my  dear  : 
you've  got  my  ring,  and  I  know  what  that  means. 
The  man  I  speak  to  is  Captain  Gaunt.  I  came  to- 
day as  happy  a  man  as  ever  stepped,  and  with  as  fair 
a  look-out.  What  did  you  care  ?  what  was  your 
reply  ?  None  of  your  flesh  and  blood,  you  said,  should 
lie  at  the  mercy  of  a  wretch  like  me  !  Am  I  not  flesh 
and  blood  that  you  should  trample  on  me  like  that  ? 
Is  that  charity,  to  stamp  the  hope  out  of  a  poor  soul  ?] 

Gaunt.  You  speak  wildly  ;  or  the  devil  of  drink 
that  is  in  you  speaks  instead. 

Kit.  You  think  me  drunk?  well,  so  I  am,  and 
whose  fault  is  it  but  yours  ?  It  was  I  that  drank  ;  but 
you  take  your  share  of  it,  Captain  Gaunt  :  you  it  was 
that  filled  the  can. 

Gaunt.  Christopher  French,  I  spoke  but  for  your 
good,  your  good  and  hers.  '  Woe  unto  him  ' — these 
are  the  dreadful  words — '  by  whom   offences    shall 

come  :  it  were  better '  Christopher,  I  can  but  pray 

for  both  of  us. 

Kit.  Prayers  ?     Now   I    tell    you  freely,    Captain 

Gaunt,  I  don't  value  your  prayers.     Deeds  are  what 

I  ask  ;  kind  deeds  and  words — that's  the  true-blue 

piety  :  to  hope  the  best  and  do  the  best,  and  speak 

214 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

the  kindest.     As  for  you,  you  insult  me  to  my  face  ; 

and  then  you'll  pray  for  me  ?     What's  that  ?     Insult      C£    . 

behind  my  back  is  what  I  call  it  !     No,  sir;  you're 

out  of  the  course  ;  you're  no  good  man  to  my  view, 

be  you  who  you  may. 

Mrs.  Drake.  O  Christopher  !  To  Captain  Gaunt  ? 

ARETHUSA.   Father,  father,  come  away  ! 

Kit.  Ah,  you  see  ?  She  suffers  too  ;  we  all  suffer. 
You  spoke  just  now  of  a  devil  ;  well,  I'll  tell  you  the 
devil  you  have  :  the  devil  of  judging  others.  And  as 
for  me,  I'll  get  as  drunk  as  Bacchus. 

Gaunt.  Come  ! 

SCENE   V 
Pew,  Mrs.  Drake,  Kit 

Pew  (coming  out  and  waving  hispipc).  Commander,  c~  r 
shake  !  Hooray  for  old  England  !  If  there's  any- 
thing in  the  world  that  goes  to  old  Pew's  'art,  it's 
argyment.  Commander,  you  handled  him  like  a 
babby,  kept  the  weather  gauge,  and  hulled  him  every 
shot.  Commander,  give  it  a  name,  and  let  that  name 
be  rum  ! 

Kit.  Ay,  rum's  the  sailor's  fancy.  Mrs.  Drake,  a 
bottle  and  clean  glasses. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Kit  French,  I  wouldn't.  Think 
better  of  it,  there's  a  dear  !  And  that  sweet  girl  just 
gone ! 

Pew.  Ma'am,    I'm    not  a  'ard    man  ;   I'm  not  the 

215 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

man  to  up  and  force  a  act  of  parlcyment  upon  ahelp- 
CJq  r  less  female.  But  you  see  here  :  Pew's  friends  is 
sacred.  Here's  my  friend  here,  a  perfeck  seaman, 
and  a  man  with  a  'ed  upon  his  shoulders,  and  a  man 
that,  damme,  I  admire.  He  give  you  a  order,  ma'am  : 
— march  ! 

MRS.  Drake.  Kit,  don't  you  listen  to  that  blind 
man  ;  he's  the  devil  wrote  upon  his  face. 

Pew.  Don't  you  insinuate  against  my  friend,  lie 
ain't  a  child,  I  hope  ?  he  knows  his  business  ?  Don't 
you  get  trying  to  go  a  lowering  of  my  friend  in  his 
own  esteem. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Well,  Pll  bring  it,  Kit ;  but  it's 
against  the  grain.     {Exit.) 

KIT.  I  say,  old  boy,  come  to  think  of  it,  why  should 
we  ?  It's  been  glasses  round  with  me  all  day.  I've 
got  my  cargo. 

Pew.  You  ?  and  you  just  argy'd  the  'ed  off  of 
Admiral  Guinea  ?  O  stash  that  !  /stand  treat,  if  it 
comes  to  that ! 

Kit.  What !  Do  I  meet  with  a  blind  seaman  and 
not  stand  him  ?     That's  not  the  man  I  am  ! 

Mrs.  Drake  (re-entering  with  bottle  and glasses). 
There  ! 

Pew.  Easy  does  it,  ma'am. 

KIT.  Mrs.  Drake,  you  had  better  trot. 

Mrs.  Drake.  Yes,  I'll  trot  ;  and  I  trot  with  a  sick 
heart,  Kit  French,  to  leave  you  drinking  your  wits 
away  with  that  low  blind  man.  For  a  low  man  you 
216 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

are — a  low  blind  man — and  your  clothes  they  would 
disgrace  a  scarecrow.  I'll  go  to  my  bed,  Kit  ;  and  O,  c„  - 
dear  boy,  go  soon  to  yours — the  old  room,  you  know  ; 
it's  ready  for  you — and  go  soon  and  sleep  it  off ;  for 
you  know,  dear,  they,  one  and  all,  regret  it  in  the 
morning  ;  thirty  years  I've  kept  this  house,  and  one 
and  all  they  did  regret  it,  dear. 

Pew.  Come  now,  you  walk  ! 

Mrs.  Drake.  O,  it's  not  for  your  bidding.  You  a 
seaman  ?  The  ship  for  you  to  sail  in  is  the  hangman's 
cart. — Good-night,  Kit  dear,  and  better  company  ! 

SCENE    VI 
Pew,  Kit.      They  sit  at  the  other  table,  L. 

Pew.  Commander,  here's  her  'ealth  ! 

Kit.  Ay,  that's  the  line  :  her  health  !    But  that  old      Sc.  6 
woman  there  is  a  good  old  woman,  Pew. 

Pew.  So  she  is,  Commander.  But  there's  no 
woman  understands  a  seaman  ;  now  you  and  me, 
being  both  bred  to  it,  we  splice  by  natur'.  As  for 
A.  G.,  if  argyment  can  win  her,  why,  she's  yours.  If 
I'd  a-had  your  'ed  for  argyment,  damme,  I'd  a-been 
a  Admiral,  I  would  !  And  if  argyment  won't  win  her, 
well,  see  here,  you  put  your  trust  in  David  Pew. 

Kit.  David  Pew,  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  David 
Pew  ;  I  never  heard  of  you ;  I  don't  seem  able  to 
clearly    see   you.     Mrs.    Drake,    she's    a   smart  old 

217 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

woman,  Pew,  and  she  says  you've  the  devil  in  your 

Sc.6    face- 

Pew.  Ah,  and  why,  says  you  ?  Because  I  up  and 
put  her  in  her  place,  when  she  forgot  herself  to  you, 
Commander. 

Kit.  Well,  Pew,  that's  so  ;  you  stood  by  me  like  a 
man.  Shake  hands,  Pew  ;  and  we'll  make  anight  of 
it,  or  we'll  know  why,  old  boy  ! 

Pew.  That's  my  way.  That's  Pew's  way,  that  is. 
That's  Pew's  way  all  over.  Commander,  excuse  the 
liberty  ;  but  when  I  was  your  age,  making  allowance 
for  a  lowlier  station  and  less  'ed  for  argyment,  I  was 
as  like  you  as  two  peas.  I  know  it  by  the  v'ice 
(sings)— 

'  We  hadn't  been  three  days  at  sea  before  we  saw  a  sail, 
So  we  clapped  on  every  stitch  would  stand,  although  it  blew  a  gale, 
And  we  walked  along  full  fourteen  knots,  for  the  barkie  she  did  know, 
As  well  as  ever  a  soul  on  board,  'twas  time  for  us  to  go.' 

Chorus,  Cap'n  ! 

Pew  and  Kit  (in  chorus) — 

'  Time  for  us  to  go. 
Time  for  us  to  go, 
As  well  as  ever  a  soul  on  board, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go.' 

Pew  (sings) — 

'  We  carried  away  the  royal  yard,  and  the  stunsail  boom  was  gone  ; 
Says  the  skipper,  "They  may  go  or  stand,  I'm   damned  if  I  don't 

crack  on  ; 
So  the  weather  braces  we'll  round  in,  and  the  trysail  set  also, 
And  we'll  keep  the  brig  three  p'ints  away,  for  it's  time  for  us  to  go."  ' 

Give  it  mouth,  Commander  ! 
218 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew  and  Kit  (in  chorus) —  II 

'  Time  for  us  to  go,  oC,  C 

Time  for  us  to  go, 
And  we'll  keep  the  brig  three  p'ints  away, 
For  it's  time  for  us  to  go.' 

Pew.  I  ain't  sung  like  that  since  I  sang  to  Admiral 
'Awke,  the  night  before  I  lost  my  eyes,  I  ain't.  '  Sink 
me!'  says  he,  says  Admiral  'Awke,  my  old  com- 
mander (touching  his  hat),  '  sink  me  ! '  he  says,  '  if 
that  ain't  'art-of-oak,'  he  says  :  '  'art-of-oak,'  says  he, 
'  and  a  pipe  like  a  bloody  blackbird  ! '  Commander, 
here's  my  respecks,  and  the  devil  fly  away  with 
Admiral  Guinea  ! 

Kit.  I  say,  Pew,  how's  this  ?  How  do  you  know 
about  Admiral  Guinea  ?  I  say,  Pew,  I  begin  to  think 
you  know  too  much. 

Pew.  I  ax  your  pardon  ;  but  as  a  man  with  a  'ed 
for  argyment — and  that's  your  best  p'int  o'  sailing, 
Commander  ;  intelleck  is  your  best  p'int — as  a  man 
with  a  'ed  for  argyment,  how  do  I  make  it  out  ? 

Kit.  Aha,  you're  a  sly  dog,  you're  a  deep  dog, 
Pew  ;  but  you  can't  get  the  weather  of  Kit  French. 
How  do  I  make  it  out  ?  I'll  tell  you.  I  make  it  out 
like  this  :  Your  name's  Pew,  ain't  it  ?  Very  well. 
And  you  know  Admiral  Guinea,  and  that's  his 
name,  eh  ?  Very  well.  Then  you're  Pew  ;  and  the 
Admiral's  the  Admiral ;  and  you  know  the  Admiral  ; 
and  by  George,  that's  all.  Hey  ?  Drink  about, 
boys,  drink  about  ! 

219 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.   Lord  love  you,  if  I'd  a-had  a  'ed  like  yours  ! 

Sc   6      Why,  the  Admiral  was   my  first  cap'n.     I  was  that 

man's  bo'sun,  I  was,  aboard  the  Arethusa  ;  and  we 

was    like    two    brothers.     Did    you    never   hear   of 

Guinea-land  and  the  black  ivory  business  ?  [sings) — 

'A  quick  run  to  the  south  we  had,  and  when  we  made  the  Bight 
We  kept  the  offing  all  day  long  and  crossed  the  bar  at  night. 
Six  hundred  niggers  in  the  hold  and  seventy  we  did  stow, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on,  'twas  time  for  us  to  go.' 

Lay  forward,  lads  ! 

Kit  and  Pew  [in  c horns) — 

'  Time  for  us  to  go, '  etc. 

Kit.  I  say,  Pew,  I  like  you  ;  you're  a  damned 
ugly  dog  ;  but  I  like  you.  But  look  ye  here,  Pew  : 
fair  does    it,  you    know,  or   we    part    company  this 

minute.     If  you  and  the  Ad the  Admirable  were 

like  brothers  on  the  Guinea  coast,  why  aren't  you 
like  brothers  here  ? 

Pew.  Ah,  /see  you  coming.  What  a  'ed  !  what  a 
'ed  !  Since  Pew  is  a  friend  of  the  family,  says  you, 
why  didn't  he  sail  in  and  bear  a  hand,  says  you, 
when  you  was  knocking  the  Admiral's  ship  about  his 
ears  in  argyment  ? 

Kit.  Well,  Pew,  now  you  put  a  name  to  it,  why  not  ? 

Pew.  Ah,  why  not  ?  There  I  recko'nise  you. 
[Well,  see  here :  argyment's  my  weakness,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking  ;  I  wouldn't  a-borne  down  and 
spiled  sport,  not  for  gold  untold,  no,  not  for  rum,  I 
wouldn't  !  And  besides,  Commander,  I  put  it  to 
220 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

you,  as  between  man  and  man,  would  it  have  been 
seaman-like  to  let  on  and  show  myself  to  a  old  gc  a 
shipmate,  when  he  was  yard-arm  to  yard-arm  with 
a  craft  not  half  his  metal,  and  getting  blown  out 
of  water  every  broadside  ?  Would  it  have  been 
'ansome  ?     I  put  it  to  you,  as  between  man  and  man. 

Kit.  Pew,  I  may  have  gifts  ;  but  I  never  thought 
of  that.  Why,  no  :  not  seaman-like.  Pew,  you've  a 
heart ;  that's  what  I  like  you  for. 

Pew.  Ah,  that  I  have  :  you'll  see.  I  wanted — 
now  you  follow  me — I  wanted  to  keep  square  with 
Admiral  Guinea.]  Why?  says  you.  Well,  put  it 
that  I  know  a  fine  young  fellow  when  I  sees  him  ; 
and  put  it  that  I  wish  him  well;  and  put  it,  for  the 
sake  of  argyment,  that  the  father  of  that  lovely 
female's  in  my  power.  Aha  ?  Pew's  Power  !  Why, 
in  my  'ands  he's  like  this  pocket  'andke'cher.  Now, 
brave  boy,  do  you  see  ? 

Kit.  No,  Pew,  my  head's  gone  ;  I  don't  see. 

Pew.  Why,  cheer  up,  Commander  !  You  want  to 
marry  this  lovely  female  ? 

Kit.  Ay,  that  I  do  ;  but  I'm  not  fit  for  her,  Pew ; 
I'm  a  drunken  dog,  and  I'm  not  fit  for  her. 

Pew.  Now,  Cap'n,  you'll  allow  a  old  seaman  to 
be  judge  :  one    as  sailed  with    'Awke    and    blessed 

Benb with   'Awke    and    noble    Anson.     You've 

been  open  and  above-board  with  me,  and  I'll  do  the 
same  by  you  :  it  being  the  case  that  you're  hard  hit 
about  a  lovely  woman,  which  many  a  time  and  oft  it 

221 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

1 1         has  happened  to  old  Pew  ;   and  him  with  a  feeling 

cr    <      'art    that    bleeds    for    you,    Commander;   why    look 

here  :  I'm  that  girl's  godfather  ;  promised  and  vowed 

for  her,  I  did  ;  and  I   like  you  ;   and  you're  the  man 

for  her  ;  and,  by  the  living  Jacob,  you  shall  splice  ! 

Kit.   David  Pew,  do  you  mean  what  you  say  ? 

Pew".  Do  I  mean  what  I  say  ?  Does  David  Pew  ? 
Ask  Admiral  'Awke  !  Ask  old  Admiral  Byng  in  his 
coffin,  where  I  laid  him  with  these  'ands  !  Pew  does, 
is  what  those  naval  commanders  would  reply.  Mean 
it  ?     I  reckon  so. 

Kit.  Then,  shake  hands.  You're  an  honest  man, 
Pew — old  Pew  ! — and  Pll  make  your  fortune.  But 
there's  something  else,  if  I  could  keep  the  run  of  it. 
O,  ah  !  But  can  you  ?  That's  the  point.  Can  you  ; 
don't  you  see  ? 

Pew.  Can  I  ?  You  leave  that  to  me  ;  Pll  bring 
you  to  your  moorings  ;  I'm  the  man  that  can,  and 
Pm  him  that  will.  But  only,  look  here,  let's  under- 
stand each  other.  You're  a  bold  blade,  ain't  you? 
You  won't  stick  at  a  trifle  for  a  lovely  female  ? 
You'll  back  me  up  ?  You're  a  man,  ain't  you  ?  a 
man,  and  you'll  see  me  through  and  through  it,  hey  ? 
Come  ;  is  that  so  ?  Are  you  fair  and  square  and 
stick  at  nothing  ? 

Kit.  Me,  Pew  ?     Pll  go  through  fire  and  water. 

Pew.  Pll  risk  it.— Well,  then,  see  here,  my  son  : 
another  swallow  and  we  jog. 

Kit.   No,  not  to-night,  Pew,  not  to-night! 

222 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.  Commander,  in  a  manner  of  speaking, 
wherefore  ?  gc  6 

Kit.  Wherefore,  Pew  ?  'Cause  why,  Pew  ?  'Cause 
I'm  drunk,  and  be  damned  to  you  ! 

Pew.  Commander,  I  ax  your  pardon  ;  but,  saving 
your  presence,  that's  a  lie.  What  ?  drunk  ?  a  man 
with  a  'ed  for  argyment  like  that  ?  Just  you  get  up, 
and  steady  yourself  on  your  two  pins,  and  you'll  be 
as  right  as  nincpence. 

[KIT.  Pew,  before  we  budge,  let  me  shake  your 
dipper  again.  You're  heart  of  oak,  Pew,  sure 
enough  ;  and  if  you  can  bring  the  Adam — Admirable 
about,  why,  damme,  I'll  make  your  fortune  !  How 
you're  going  to  do  it,  I  don't  know  ;  but  I'll  stand 
by  ;  and  I  know  you'll  do  it  if  anybody  can.  But 
I'm  drunk,  Pew  ;  you  can't  deny  that  :  Pm  as  drunk 
as  a  Plymouth  fiddler,  Pew  ;  and  how  you're  going 
to  do  it  is  a  mystery  to  me. 

Pew.  Ah,  you  leave  that  to  me.  All  I  want  is 
what  I've  got  :  your  promise  to  stand  by  and  bear  a 
hand  (producing  a  dark  lantern).}  Now,  here,  you 
see,  is  my  little  glim  ;  it  ain't  for  me,  because  I'm 
blind,  worse  luck  !  and  the  day  and  night  is  the 
blessed  same  to  David  Pew.  But  you  watch.  You 
put  the  candle  near  me.  Here's  what  there  ain't 
mony  blind  men  could  do,  take  the  pick  o'  them  ! 
(lighting  a  screw  of  paper,  and  with  that,  the 
lantern)  Hey  ?  That's  it.  Hey  ?  Go  and  pity  the 
poor  blind  ! 

223 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

II  Kit  {while   Pew  blows   out  the   candles).     But  I 

Sc  6      say'  Pew>  wnat  do  you  want  with  it  ? 

Pew.  To  see  by,  my  son.  {He  shuts  the  lantern 
and  puts  it  in  his  pocket.  Stage  quite  dark.  Moon- 
light at  window.)  All  ship-shape  ?  No  sparks 
about  ?  No  ?  Come,  then,  lean  on  me  and  heave 
ahead  for  the  lovely  female.       (Singing  sotto  voce) — 

'Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  (or  us  to  go, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on, 
'Twas  lime  for  us  to  go.' 


Drop 


224 


ACT   III 

The  Stage  represents  the  Admirafs  house,  as  in  Act  I.     Gaunt, 

seated,  is  reading  aloud  ;  ArethuSA  sits  at 

his  feet.     Candies 


SCENE   I 

Arethusa,  Gaunt 

[Gaunt  {reading).  '  And  Ruth  said,  Intreat  me  gc  y 
not  to  leave  thee,  or  to  return  from  following  after 
thee  :  for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go  ;  and  where 
thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge  :  thy  people  shall  be  my 
people,  and  thy  God  my  God  :  Where  thou  diest, 
will  I  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried  :  the  Lord  do  so 
to  me,  and  more  also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee 
and  me.'     {He  closes  the  book.)     Amen. 

Arethusa.  Amen.  Father,  there  spoke  my  heart. J 
Gaunt.  Arethusa,  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  has  seen 
right  to  vex  us  with  trials  of  many  kinds.  It  is  a 
little  matter  to  endure  the  pangs  of  the  flesh  :  the 
smart  of  wounds,  the  passion  of  hunger  and  thirst, 
the  heaviness  of  disease  ;  and  in  this  world  I  have 
learned  to  take  thought  for  nothing  save  the  quiet  of 

22C 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

your  soul.  It  is  through  our  affections  that  we  are 
g£    ,      smitten  with  the  true  pain,  even  the  pain  that  kills. 

ARETHUSA.  And  yet  this  pain  is  our  natural  lot. 
Father,  I  fear  to  boast,  but  I  know  that  I  can  bear  it. 
Let  my  life,  then,  flow  like  common  lives,  each  pain 
rewarded  with  some  pleasure,  each  pleasure  linked 
with  some  pain  :  nothing  pure,  whether  for  good  or 
evil  :  and  my  husband,  like  myself  and  all  the  rest  of 
us,  only  a  poor,  kind-hearted  sinner,  striving  for  the 
better  part.     What  more  could  any  woman  ask  ? 

Gaunt.  Child,  child,  your  words  are  like  a  sword. 
What  would  she  ask  ?  Look  upon  me  whom,  in  the 
earthly  sense,  you  are  commanded  to  respect.  Look 
upon  me  :  do  I  bear  a  mark  ?  is  there  any  outward 
sign  to  bid  a  woman  avoid  and  flee  from  me  ? 

Arethusa.  I  see  nothing  but  the  face  I  love. 

Gaunt.  There  is  none  :  nor  yet  on  the  young  man 
Christopher,  whose  words  still  haunt  and  upbraid  me. 
Yes,  I  am  hard  ;  I  was  born  hard,  born  a  tyrant,  born 
to  be  what  I  was,  a  slaver  captain.  But  to-night,  and 
to  save  you,  I  will  pluck  my  heart  out  of  my  bosom. 
You  shall  know  what  makes  me  what  I  am  ;  you  shall 
hear,  out  of  my  own  life,  why  I  dread  and  deprecate 
this  marriage.  Child,  do  you  remember  your  mother  ? 

Arethusa.  Remember  her  ?  Ah,  if  she  had  been 
here  to-day  ! 

Gaunt.  It  is  thirteen  years  since  she  departed,  and 
took  with  her  the  whole  sunshine  of  my  life.  Do  you 
remember  the  manner  of  her  departure  ?  You  were  a 
226 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

child,  and  cannot  ;  but  I  can  and  do.     Remember  ?        HI 
shall  I  ever  forget  ?     Here  or  hereafter,  ever  forget  !      cc    T 
Ten  years  she  was  my  wife,  and  ten  years  she  lay 
a-dying.     Arethusa,  she  was  a  saint  on  earth  ;  and  it 
was  I  that  killed  her. 

Arethusa.  Killed  her  ?  my  mother  ?  You  ? 

Gaunt.  Not  with  my  hand  ;  for  I  loved  her.  I 
would  not  have  hurt  one  hair  upon  her  head.  But 
she  got  her  death  by  me,  as  sure  as  by  a  blow. 

Arethusa.  I  understand — I  can  see  :  you  brood 
on  trifles,  misunderstandings,  unkindnesses,  you  think 
them  ;  though  my  mother  never  knew  of  them,  or 
never  gave  them  a  second  thought.  It  is  natural, 
when  death  has  come  between. 

Gaunt.  I  married  her  from  Falmouth.  She  was 
comely  as  the  roe  ;  I  see  her  still — her  dove's  eyes  and 
her  smile  !  I  was  older  than  she  ;  and  I  had  a  name 
for  hardness,  a  hard  and  wicked  man  ;  but  she  loved 
me — my  Hester !  —and  she  took  me  as  I  was.  O  how 
I  repaid  her  trust  !  Well,  our  child  was  born  to  us  ; 
and  we  named  her  after  the  brig  I  had  built  and  sailed, 
the  old  craft  whose  likeness — older  than  you,  girl — 
stands  there  above  our  heads.  And  so  far,  that  was 
happiness.  But  she  yearned  for  my  salvation  ;  and 
it  was  there  I  thwarted  her.  My  sins  were  a  burden 
upon  her  spirit,  a  shame  to  her  in  this  world,  her 
terror  in  the  world  to  come.  She  talked  much  and 
often  of  my  leaving  the  devil's  trade  I  sailed  in.  She 
had  a  tender  and  a  Christian  heart,  and  she  would 

227 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

weep  and  pray  for  the  poor  heathen  creatures  that  I 
gc  j  bought  and  sold  and  shipped  into  misery,  till  my  con- 
science grew  hot  within  me.  I've  put  on  my  hat,  and 
gone  out  and  made  oath  that  my  next  cargo  should 
be  my  last  ;  but  it  never  was,  that  oath  was  never 
kept.  So  I  sailed  again  and  again  for  the  Guinea 
coast,  until  the  trip  came  that  was  to  be  my  last  in- 
deed. Well,  it  fell  out  that  we  had  good  luck  trading, 
and  I  stowed  the  brig  with  these  poor  heathen  as 
full  as  she  would  hold.  We  had  a  fair  run  westward 
till  we  were  past  the  line  ;  but  one  night  the  wind 
rose  and  there  came  a  hurricane,  and  for  seven  days 
we  were  tossed  on  the  deep  seas,  in  the  hardest  straits, 
and  every  hand  on  deck.  For  several  days  they  were 
battened  down  :  all  that  time  we  heard  their  cries  and 
lamentations,  but  worst  at  the  beginning  ;  and  when 
at  last,  and  near  dead  myself,  I  crept  below — O  !  some 
they  were  starved,  some  smothered,  some  dead  of 
broken  limbs  ;  and  the  hold  was  like  a  lazar-house  in 
the  time  of  the  anger  of  the  Lord  ! 

Arethusa.  O  ! 

Gaunt.  It  was  two  hundred  and  five  that  we  threw 
overboard  :  two  hundred  and  five  lost  souls  that  I  had 
hurried  to  their  doom.  I  had  many  die  with  me  be- 
fore ;  but  not  like  that — not  such  a  massacre  as  that ; 
and  I  stood  dumb  before  the  sight.  For  I  saw  I  was 
their  murderer — body  and  soul  their  murderer  ;  and, 
Arethusa,  my  Hester  knew  it.  That  was  her  death- 
stroke  :  it  felled  her.  She  had  long  been  dying  slowly; 
228 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

but  from  the  hour  she  heard  that  story,  the  garment        HI 
of  the  flesh  began  to  waste  and  perish,  the  fountains      gc    j 
of  her  life  dried  up  ;    she  faded   before  my  face  ; 
and    in  two   months    from    my    landing — O    Hester, 
Hester,  would  God  I  had  died  for  thee  ! 

Arethusa.  Mother  !  O  poor  soul !  O  poor  father  ! 
O  father,  it  was  hard  on  you. 

Gaunt.  The  night  she  died,  she  lay  there,  in  her 
bed.  She  took  my  hand.  '  I  am  going,'  she  said, 
'  to  heaven.  For  Christ's  sake,'  she  said, '  come  after 
me,  and  bring  my  little  maid.  I'll  be  waiting  and 
wearying  till  you  come  ;  '  and  she  kissed  my  hand, 
the  hand  that  killed  her.  At  that  I  broke  out 
calling  on  her  to  stop,  for  it  was  more  than  I  could 
bear.  But  no,  she  said  she  must  still  tell  me  of  my 
sins,  and  how  the  thought  of  them  had  bowed  down 
her  life.  '  And  O  ! '  she  said,  '  if  I  couldn't  prevail  on 
you  alive,  let  my  death.'  .  .  .  Well,  then,  she  died. 
What  have  I  done  since  then  ?  I've  laid  my  course 
for  Hester.  Sin,  temptation,  pleasure,  all  this  poor 
shadow  of  a  world,  I  saw  them  not  :  I  saw  my  Hester 
waiting,  waiting  and  wearying.  I  have  made  my 
election  sure  ;  my  sins  I  have  cast  them  out.  Hester, 
Hester,  I  will  come  to  you,  poor  waiting  one  ;  and 
I'll  bring  your  little  maid  :  ay,  dearest  soul,  I'll  bring 
your  little  maid  safe  with  me  ! 

Arethusa.  O  teach  me  how  ?  Show  me  the  way ! 
only  show  me. — O  mother,  mother! — If  it  were  paved 
with  fire,  show  me  the  way,  and  I  will  walk  it  bare-foot! 

229 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Gaunt.  They  call  me  a  miser.  The)-  say  that  in 
gc  j  this  sea-chest  of  mine  I  hoard  my  gold  {He  passes 
7v\  to  chest,  takes  out  key,  and  unlocks  it.)  They 
think  my  treasure  and  my  very  soul  are  locked  up 
here.  They  speak  after  the  flesh,  but  they  are  right. 
See! 

Arethusa.  Her  watch?  the  wedding  ring?  O 
Father,  forgive  me ! 

Gaunt.  Ay,  her  watch  that  counted  the  hours  when 
I  was  away  ;  they  were  few  and  sorrowful,  my  Hester's 
hours  ;  and  this  poor  contrivance  numbered  them. 
The  ring — with  that  I  married  her.  This  chain,  it's 
of  Guinea  gold  ;  I  brought  it  home  for  her,  the  year 
before  we  married,  and  she  wore  it  to  her  wedding. 
It  was  a  vanity  :  they  are  all  vanities  ;  but  they  are 
the  treasure  of  my  soul.  Below  here,  see,  her  wedding 
dress.  Ay,  the  watch  has  stopped  :  dead,  dead. 
And  I  know  that  my  Hester  died  of  me  ;  and  day 
and  night,  asleep  and  awake,  my  soul  abides  in  her 
remembrance. 

Arethusa.  And  you  come  in  your  sleep  to  look  at 
them.  O  poor  father!  I  understand — I  understand 
you  now. 

Gaunt.  In  my  sleep  ?  Ay  ?  do  I  so  ?  My  Hester  ! 

Arethusa.  And  why,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ? 
I  thought — I  was  like  the  rest ! — I  feared  you  were  a 
miser.  O,  you  should  have  told  me  ;  I  should  have 
been  so  proud— so  proud  and  happy.  I  knew  you 
loved  her  ;  but  not  this,  not  this. 
230 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Gaunt.  Why  should  I  have  spoken  ?     It  was  all        HI 
between  my  Hester  and  me.  gc    ^ 

Arethusa.  Father,  may  I  speak  ?  May  I  tell  you 
what  my  heart  tells  me  ?  You  do  not  understand 
about  my  mother.  You  loved  her — O,  as  few  men 
can  love.  And  she  loved  you  :  think  how  she  loved 
you  !  In  this  world,  you  know — you  have  told  me — 
there  is  nothing  perfect.  All  we  men  and  women 
have  our  sins  ;  and  they  are  a  pain  to  those  that  love 
us,  and  the  deeper  the  love,  the  crueller  the  pain. 
That  is  life  ;  and  it  is  life  we  ask,  not  heaven  ;  and 
what  matter  for  the  pain,  if  only  the  love  holds  on? 
Her  love  held  :  then  she  was  happy  !  Her  love  was 
immortal  ;  and  when  she  died,  her  one  grief  was  to 
be  parted  from  you,  her  one  hope  to  welcome  you 
again. 

Gaunt.  And  you,  Arethusa  :  I  was  to  bring  her 
little  maid. 

Arethusa.  God  bless  her,  yes,  and  me  !  But, 
father,  can  you  not  see  that  she  was  blessed  among 
women  ? 

Gaunt.  Child,  child,  you  speak  in  ignorance  ;  you 
touch  upon  griefs  you  cannot  fathom. 

Arethusa.  No,  dearest,  no.  She  loved  you,  loved 
you  and  died  of  it.  Why  else  do  women  live  ?  What 
would  I  ask  but  just  to  love  my  Kit  and  die  for  him, 
and  look  down  from  heaven,  and  see  him  keep  my 
memory  holy  and  live  the  nobler  for  my  sake  ? 

("/AIN'T.  Ay,  do  you  so  love  him  ? 

231 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Arethusa.  Even  as  my  mother  loved  my  father. 
gc    j  Gaunt.  Ay?    Then  we  will  sec.     What  right  have 

I You  are  your  mother's  child  :  better,  tenderer, 

wiser  than  I.    Let  us  seek  guidance  in  prayer.    Good- 
night, my  little  maid. 
Arethusa.  O  father,  I  know  you  at  last. 

SCENE    II 

Gaunt  and  Arethusa  go  out,  L.,  carrying  the 
candles.  Stage  dark.  A  distant  clock  chimes 
the  quarters,  and  strikes  one.  Theii,  the  tap- 
tapping  of  Pew's  stick  is  heard  without ;  the 
key  is  put  into  the  lock  ;  and  enter  PEW,  C,  he 
pockets  key,  and  is  followed  by  Kit,  with  dark 
lantern 

Sc.  2  Pew.  Quiet,  you  lubber  !     Can't  you  foot  it  soft, 

you  that  has  daylights  and  a  glim  ? 

Kit.  All  right,  old  boy.     How  the  devil  did  we  get 
through  the  door?     Shall  I  knock  him  up  ? 

Pew.  Stow  your  gab  {seising  his  wrist).     Under 
your  breath  ! 

Kit.  Avast  that !    You're  a  savage  dog,  aren't  you  ? 

Pew.  Turn  on  that  glim. 

Kit.  It's   as  right  as  a  trivet,  Pew.     What  next  ? 
By  George,  Pew,  I'll  make  your  fortune. 

Pew.  Here,  now,  look  round  this  room,  and  sharp. 
D'ye  see  a  old  sea-chest  ? 
232 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Kit.  See  it,  Pew  ?  why,  d'ye  think  I'm  blind  ?  HI 

Pew.  Take  me  across,  and  let  me  feel  of  her.  cc  2 
Mum  ;  catch  my  hand.  Ah,  that's  her  {feeling  the 
chest),  that's  the  Golden  Mary.  Now,  see  here,  my 
bo,  if  you've  the  pluck  of  a  weevil  in  a  biscuit,  this 
girl  is  yours  ;  if  you  hain't,  and  think  to  sheer  off, 
Pm  blind,  but  I'm  deadly. 

Kit.  You'll  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head  all 
the  same.  I'll  take  threats  from  nobody,  blind  or  not. 
Lets  knock  up  the  Admiral  and  be  done  with  it. 
What  I  want  is  to  get  rid  of  this  dark  lantern.  It 
makes  me  feel  like  a  housebreaker,  by  George. 

Pew  {seated  on  chest).  You  follow  this.  I'm  sick 
of  drinking  bilge,  when  I  might  be  rolling  in  my 
coach,  and  I'm  dog-sick  of  Jack  Gaunt.  Who's  he 
to  be  wallowing  in  gold,  when  a  better  man  is  groping 
crusts  in  the  gutter  and  spunging  for  rum  ?  Now, 
here  in  this  blasted  chest  is  the  gold  to  make  men  of 
us  for  life  :  gold,  ay,  gobs  of  it  ;  and  writin's  too — 
things  that  if  I  had  the  proof  of  'em  I'd  hold  Jack 
Gaunt  to  the  grindstone  till  his  face  was  flat.  I'd 
have  done  it  single-handed  ;  but  I'm  blind,  worse 
luck  :  I'm  all  in  the  damned  dark  here,  poking  with 
a  stick — Lord,  burn  up  with  lime  the  eyes  that  saw  it ! 
That's  why  I  raked  up  you.  Come,  out  with  your 
iron,  and  prise  the  lid  off.  You  shall  touch  your 
snack,  and  have  the  wench  for  nothing  ;  ay,  and  fling 
her  in  the  street,  when  done. 

Kit.  So  you  brought  me  here  to  steal,  did  you  ? 

233 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

HI  Pew.  Ay  did  I;  and  you  shall.     I'm  a  biter:  I 

c„    ^      bring  blood. 

Kit.  Now,  Pew,  you  came  here  on  my  promise,  or 
Pd  kill  you  like  a  rat.  As  it  is,  out  of  that  door  ? 
One,  two,  three  (drawing  his  cutlass),  and  off! 

Pew  (leaping  at  his  throat,  and  with  a  great 
voice).     Help!  murder!  thieves! 

SCENE  III 

To  these,  Arethusa,  Gaunt,  with  lights.     Stage 
light.     Pew  has  Kit  down,  and  is  throttling  him 

3c.  2  Pew.  Pve  got  him,  Cap'n.  What,  kill  my  old 
commander,  and  rob  him  of  his  blessed  child  ?  Not 
with  old  Pew  ! 

Gaunt.  Get  up,  David  :  can't  you  see  you're 
killing  him  ?     Unhand,  I  say. 

Arethusa.  In  heaven's  name,  who  is  it  ? 

Pew.  It's  a  damned  villain,  my  pretty  ;  and  his 
name,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  is  French. 

Arethusa.  Kit  ?  Kit  French  ?     Never  ! 

Kit  (rising).  He's  done  for  me.     (Falls  on  chest.) 

[Pew.  Don't  you  take  on  about  him,  ducky  ;  he 
ain't  worth  it.  Cap'n  Gaunt,  I  took  him  and  I  give 
him  up.  You  was  'ard  on  me  this  morning,  Cap'n  : 
this  is  my  way — Pew's  way,  this  is — of  paying  of  you 
out. 

Arethusa.  Father,  this   is   the   blind  man  that 

234 


J 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

came  while  you  were  abroad.     Sure  you'll  not  listen 

to  him.     And  you,  Kit,  you,  what  is  this  ?  c„    <, 

Kit.  Captain  Gaunt,  that  blind  devil  has  half- 
throttled  me.  He  brought  me  here — I  can't  speak — 
he  has  almost  killed  me — and  I'd  been  drinking  too. 

Gaunt.  And  you,  David  Pew,  what  do  you  say  ?] 

Pew.  Cap'n,  the  rights  of  it  is  this.  Me  and  that 
young  man  there  was  partaking  in  a  friendly  drop  of 
rum  at  the  Admiral  Benboiv  inn  ;  and  I'd  just 
proposed  his  blessed  Majesty,  when  the  young  man 
he  ups  and  says  to  me  :  '  Pew,'  he  says,  '  I  like  you, 
Pew  :  you're  a  true  seaman,'  he  says  ;  '  and  I'm  one 
as  sticks  at  nothing  ;  and  damme,  Pew,'  he  says, 
'  I'll  make  your  fortune.'  [Can  he  deny  as  them  was 
his  words  ?  Look  at  him,  you  as  has  eyes  :  no,  he 
cannot.  '  Come  along  of  me,'  he  says,  '  and  damme, 
I'll  make  your  fortune.']  Well,  Cap'n,  he  lights  a 
dark  lantern  (which  you'll  find  it  somewhere  on  the 
floor,  I  reckon),  and  out  we  goes,  me  follerin'  his 
lead,  as  I  thought  was  'art-of-oak  and  a  true-blue 
mariner  ;  and  the  next  I  knows  is,  here  we  was  in 
here,  and  him  a-askin'  me  to  'old  the  glim,  while  he 
prised  the  lid  off  of  your  old  sea-chest  with  his  cutlass. 

Gaunt.  The  chest  ?  {He  leaps,  R.,  and  examines 
chest.)     Ah! 

Pew.  Leastways,  I  was  to  'elphim,  by  his  account 
of  it,  while  he  nailed  the  rhino,  and  then  took  and 
carried  off  that  lovely  maid  of  yours  :  for  a  lovely 
maid  she   is,  and    one    as   touched   old    Pew's  'art. 

235 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Cap'n,  when  I  'eard  that,  my  blood  biled.  '  Young 
i^c  -  man,'  I  says,  '  you  don't  know  David  Pew,'  I  says  ; 
and  with  that  I  ups  and  does  my  dooty  by  him, 
cutlass  and  all,  like  a  lion-'arted  seaman,  though 
blind.  [And  then  in  comes  you,  and  I  gives  him  up  : 
as  you  know  for  a  fack  is  true,  and  I'll  subscribe  at 
the  Assizes.  And  that,  if  you  was  to  cut  me  into 
junks,  is  the  truth,  the 'ole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  world  without  end,  so  help  me,  amen  ;  and  if 
you'll  'and  me  over  the  'oly  Bible,  me  not  having 
such  a  thing  about  me  at  the  moment,  why,  I'll  put 
a  oath  upon  it  like  a  man.] 

Arethusa.  Father,  have  you  heard  ? 

[Gaunt.  I  know  this  man,  Arethusa,  and  the  truth 
is  not  in  him. 

Arethusa.   Well,    and   why   do   we   wait  ?     We 
know  Kit,  do  we  not  ? 

KIT.  Ay,  Captain,  you  know  the  pair  of  us,  and 
you  can  see  his  face  and  mine.] 

Gaunt.  Christopher,  the  facts  are  all  against  you. 
I  find  you  here  in  my  house  at  midnight  :  you  who 
at  least  had  eyes  to  see,  and  must  have  known 
whither  you  were  going.  It  was  this  man,  not  you, 
who  called  me  up  :  and  when  I  came  in,  it  was  he 
who  was  uppermost  and  who  gave  you  up  to  justice. 
This  unsheathed  cutlass  is  yours  ;  there  hangs  the 
scabbard,  empty  ;  and  as  for  the  dark  lantern,  of 
what  use  is  light  to  the  blind  ?  and  who  could  have 
trimmed  and  lighted  it  but  you  ? 
236 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.  Ah,  Cap'n,  what  a  'ed  for  argyment !  HI 

Kit.  And  now,  sir,  now  that  you  have  spoken,  I      gc    , 
claim  the  liberty  to  speak  on  my  side. 

Gaunt.  Not  so.  I  will  first  have  done  with  this 
man.  David  Pew,  it  were  too  simple  to  believe  your 
story  as  you  tell  it  ;  but  I  can  find  no  testimony 
against  you.  From  whatever  reason,  assuredly  you 
have  done  me  service.  Here  are  five  guineas  to  set 
you  on  your  way.  Begone  at  once  ;  and  while  it  is 
yet  time,  think  upon  your  repentance. 

Pew.  Cap'n,  here's  my  respecks.  You've  turned 
a  pious  man,  Cap'n  ;  it  does  my  'art  good  to  'ear  you. 
But  you  ain't  the  only  one.  O  no  !  I  came  about  and 
paid  off  on  the  other  tack  before  you,  I  reckon  :  you 
ask  the  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet  else,  as  called  me  on 
the  quarter-deck  before  old  Admiral  'Awke  himself 
(touching  his  hat),  my  old  commander.  ['  David 
Pew,'  he  says,  '  five-and-thirty  year  have  I  been  in 
this  trade,  man  and  boy,'  that  chaplain  says,  '  and 
damme,  Pew,'  says  he,  '  if  ever  I  seen  the  seaman 
that  could  rattle  off  his  catechism  within  fifty  mile  of 
you.  Here's  five  guineas  out  of  my  own  pocket,'  he 
says  ;  '  and  what's  more  to  the  pint,'  he  says,  '  I'll 
speak  to  my  reverend  brother-in-law,  the  Bishop  of 
Dover,'  he  says  ;  '  and  if  ever  you  leave  the  sea,  and 
wants  a  place  as  beadle,  why  damme,'  says  he, '  you  go 
to  him,  for  you're  the  man  for  him,  and  him  for  you.' 

Gaunt.  David  Pew,  you  never  set  your  foot  on  a 
King's  ship  in  all  your  life.     There  lies  the  road. 

237 


J 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Pew.   Ah,  you  was  always  a  'ard  man,  Cap'n,  and 
c„    .-,      a  'ard    man    to  believe,  like   Didymus    the  'Ebrew 
prophet.     But  it's  time  for   me    to  go,   and  I'll  be 
going.     My  service  to  you,    Cap'n  :    and  I  kiss  my 
'and  to  that  lovely  female.     (Singing) — 

'  Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  lor  us  to  go, 
And  when  we'd  clapped  the  hatches  on, 
'Twas  time  for  us  to  go.' 


SCENE    IV 

Kit,  Arethusa,  Gaunt 

Sc.  4        Arethusa.  Now,  Kit  ? 

Kit.  Well,  sir,  and  now  ? 

Gaunt.  I  find  you  here  in  my  house  at  this 
untimely  and  unseemly  hour;  I  find  you  there  in 
company  with  one  who,  to  my  assured  knowledge, 
should  long  since  have  swung  in  the  wind  at 
Execution  Dock.  What  brought  you  ?  Why  did 
you  open  my  door  while  I  slept  to  such  a  companion  ? 
Christopher  French,  I  have  two  treasures.  One 
(laying  his  hand  on  ARETH USA'S  shoulder)  I  know 
you  covet  :  Christopher,  is  this  your  love  ? 

Kit.  Sir,  I  have  been  fooled  and  trapped.  That 
man  declared  he  knew  you,  declared  he  could  make 
you  change  your  mind  about  our  marriage.  I  was 
drunk,  sir,  and  I  believed  him  :  heaven  knows  I  am 
sober  now,  and  can  see  my  folly  ;  but  I  believed  him 
238 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

then,  and  followed  him.  He  brought  me  here,  he  HI 
told  me  your  chest  was  full  of  gold  that  would  make  gc<  , 
men  of  us  for  life.  At  that  I  saw  my  fault,  sir,  and 
drew  my  cutlass  ;  and  he,  in  the  wink  of  an  eye, 
roared  out  for  help,  leaped  at  my  throat  like  a  weasel 
and  had  me  rolling  on  the  floor.  He  was  quick,  and 
I,  as  I  tell  you,  sir,  was  off  my  balance. 

GAUNT.   Is  this  man,  Pew,  your  enemy  ? 

Kit.  No,  sir  ;   I  never  saw  him  till  to-night. 

Gaunt.  Then,  if  you  must  stand  the  justice  of 
your  country,  come  to  the  proof  with  a  better  plea. 
What  !  lantern  and  cutlass  yours  ;  you  the  one  that 
knew  the  house  ;  you  the  one  that  saw  ;  you  the  one 
overtaken  and  denounced  ;  and  you  spin  me  a  galley 
yarn  like  that  ?  If  that  is  all  your  defence,  you'll 
hang,  sir,  hang. 

Arethusa.  Ah !  .  .  .  Father,  I  give  him  up  :  I 
will  never  see  him,  never  speak  to  him,  never  think 
of  him  again  ;  I  take  him  from  my  heart ;  I  give 
myself  wholly  up  to  you  and  to  my  mother ;  I  will 
obey  you  in  every  point — O,  not  at  a  word  merely — at 
a  finger  raised  !  I  will  do  all  this  ;  I  will  do  anything 
— anything  you  bid  me  ;  I  swear  it  in  the  face  of 
heaven.  Only — Kit!  I  love  him,  father,  I  love  him. 
Let  him  go. 

[Gaunt.    Go  ? 

Arethusa.  You  let  the  other.  Open  the  door 
again — for  my  sake,  father — in  my  mother's  name — 
O,  open  the  door  and  let  him  go.] 

239 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Kit.  Let  me  go  ?  My  girl,  if  you  had  cast  me  out 
Cp  .  this  morning,  good  and  well  :  I  would  have  left  you, 
though  it  broke  my  heart.  But  it's  a  changed  story 
now  ;  now  I'm  down  on  my  luck,  and  you  come  and 
stab  me  from  behind.  I  ask  no  favour,  and  I'll  take 
none  ;  I  stand  here  on  my  innocence,  and  God 
helping  me  I'll  clear  my  good  name,  and  get  your 
love  again,  if  it's  love  worth  having.  [Now,  Captain 
Gaunt,  I've  said  my  say,  and  you  may  do  your 
pleasure.  I  am  my  father's  son,  and  I  never  feared 
to  face  the  truth. 

Gaunt.  You  have  spoken  like  a  man,  French,  and 
you  may  go.     I  leave  you  free. 

Kit.  Nay,  sir,  not  so  :  not  with  my  will.  I'm 
accused  and  counted  guilty  ;  the  proofs  are  against 
me  ;  the  girl  I  love  has  turned  upon  me.  I'll  accept 
no  mercy  at  your  hands.]  Captain  Gaunt,  I  am  your 
prisoner. 

Arethusa.   Kit,  dear  Kit 

Gaunt.  Silence  !  Young  man,  I  have  offered  you 
liberty  without  bond  or  condition.  You  refuse.  You 
shall  be  judged.  Meanwhile  {opening  the  door,  R.), 
you  will  go  in  here.  I  keep  your  cutlass.  The  night 
brings  counsel  :  to-morrow  shall  decide.  (He  locks 
Kit  in,  leaving  the  key  in  the  door.) 


240 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

SCENE  V 
Gaunt,  Arethusa,  afterwards  Pew  t  j  t 

Arethusa.  Father,  you  believe  in  him  ;  you  do  ;      Sc.  ^ 
I  know  you  do. 

Gaunt.  Child,  I  am  not  given  to  be  hasty.  I  will 
pray  and  sleep  upon  this  matter.  (A  knocking  at  the 
door,  C.)     Who  knocks  so  late  ?     {He  opens.) 

Pew  {entering).  Cap'n,  shall  I  fetch  the  constable  ? 

Gaunt.  No. 

Pew.  No  ?     Have  ye  killed  him  ? 

Gaunt.  My  man,  I'll  see  you  into  the  road.  {He 
takes  Pew  by  the  arm,  and  goes  out  with  him.) 

SCENE  VI 

Arethusa 

ARETHUSA.   {Listens  ;  then  running  to  door  R.)      Cc  f. 
Kit — dearest  Kit !  wait  !     I  will  come  to  you  soon. 
(Gaunt  re-enters,  C,  as  the  drop  falls.) 


241 


ACT  IV 

The  Stage  represents  the  Ad.mira.rs  house,  as  in  Acts  I.  and  111, 

A  chair,  L.,  in  front.     As  the  curtain  rises,  the  Stage  is  dark. 

Enter  Arethusa,   L.,   with  candle ;    she  lights   another; 

and  passes  to  door,  R.,  which  she  unbolts.     Stage  light 

SCENE  I 
Arethusa,   Kit 

IV 

cc    T         Arethusa.  Come,  dear  Kit,  come  ! 

Kit.  Well,  I'm  here. 

Arethusa.  O  Kit,  you  are  not  angry  with  me  ? 

Kit.  Have  I  reason  to  be  pleased  ? 

Arethusa.  Kit,  I  was  wrong.     Forgive  me. 

Kit.  O  yes.  I  forgive  you.  I  suppose  you  meant 
it  kindly  ;  but  there  are  some  kindnesses  a  man  would 
rather  die  than  take  a  gift  of.  When  a  man  is  accused, 
Arethusa,  it  is  not  that  he  fears  the  gallows — it's  the 
shame  that  cuts  him.  At  such  a  time  as  that,  the 
way  to  help  was  to  stand  to  your  belief.  You  should 
have  nailed  my  colours  to  the  mast,  not  spoke  of 
striking  them.  If  I  were  to  be  hanged  to-morrow, 
and  your  love  there,  and  a  free  pardon  and  a  duke- 
dom on  the  other  side — which  would  I  choose  ? 
242 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Arethusa.  Kit,  you  must  judge  me  fairly.     It  was         I  V 
not  my  life  that  was  at  stake,  it  was  yours.      Had  it      Cc    , 
been  mine — mine,  Kit— what  had  you  done,  then  ? 

Kit.  I  am  a  downright  fool  ;  I  saw  it  inside  out. 
Why,  give  you  up,  by  George  ! 

ARETHUSA.  Ah,  you  see  !  Now  you  understand. 
It  was  all  pure  love.  When  he  said  that  word — O  ! — 
death  and  that  disgrace  !  .  .  .  But  I  know  my  father. 
He  fears  nothing  so  much  as  the  goodness  of  his 
heart  ;  and  yet  it  conquers.  He  would  pray,  he  said  ; 
and  to-night,  and  by  the  kindness  of  his  voice,  I  knew 
he  was  convinced  already.  All  that  is  wanted,  is  that 
you  should  forgive  me. 

Kit.  Arethusa,  if  you  looked  at  me  like  that  I'd 
forgive  you  piracy  on  the  high  seas.  I  was  only 
sulky  ;  I  was  boxed  up  there  in  the  black  dark,  and 
couldn't  see  my  hand.  It  made  me  pity  that  blind 
man,  by  George  ! 

Arethusa.  O,  that  blind  man  !  The  fiend  !  He 
came  back,  Kit  :  did  you  hear  him  ?  he  thought  we 
had  killed  you — you  ! 

Kit.  Well,  well,  it  serves  me  right  for  keeping  com- 
pany with  such  a  swab. 

Arethusa.  One  thing  puzzles  me  :  how  did  you 
get  in  ?     I  saw  my  father  lock  the  door. 

Kit.  Ah,  how  ?  That's  just  it.  I  was  a  sheet  in 
the  wind,  you  see.  How  did  we  ?  He  did  it  some- 
how. .  .  .  By  George,  he  had  a  key  !  He  can  get  in 
again. 

243 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

IV  ARETHUSA.  Again?  that  man  ! 

Cc    j  Kit.  Ay,  can  he  !     Again  !     When  he  likes! 

Arethusa.  Kit,  I  am  afraid.  O  Kit,  he  will  kill 
my  father. 

Kit.  Afraid.  I'm  glad  of  that.  Now,  you'll  see 
I'm  worth  my  salt  at  something.  Ten  to  one  he's 
back  to  Mrs.  Drake's.  I'll  after,  and  lay  him 
aboard. 

Arethusa.   O  Kit,  he  is  too  strong  for  you. 

Kit.  Arethusa,  that's  below  the  belt !  Never  you 
fear  ;   I'll  give  a  good  account  of  him. 

Arethusa  {taking  cutlass  from  the  wait).  You'll 
be  none  the  worse  for  this,  dear. 

Kit.  That's  so  (making  cuts).  All  the  same,  I'm 
half  ashamed  to  draw  on  a  blind  man  ;  it's  too  much 
odds.     (He  leans  suddenly  against  the  table.)     Ah! 

Arethusa.  Kit !     Are  you  ill  ? 

Kit.  My  head's  like  a  humming  top  ;  it  serves  me 
right  for  drinking. 

Arethusa.  O,  and  the  blind  man  !  (She  runs,  L., 
to  the  corner  cupboard,  brings  a  bottle  and  glass,  and 
fills  and  offers  glass!)     Here,  lad,  drink  that. 

Kit.  To  you  !  That's  better.  (Bottle  and  glass 
remain  on  Gauul's  table.) 

Arethusa.  Suppose  you  miss  him  ? 

Kit.  Miss  him  !  The  road  is  straight  ;  and  I  can 
hear  the  tap-tapping  of  that  stick  a  mile  away. 

Arethusa   (listening).  St!  my  father  stirring  in 
his  room ! 
244 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Kit.  Let  me  get   clear  ;    tell  him  why  when  I'm         IV 
gone.     The  door ?  c~    j 

Arethusa.   Locked! 

Kit.  The  window  ! 

Arethusa.  Quick,  quick.  (She  unfastens  R.  win- 
dow, by  w/iic/i  Kit  goes  out.) 

SCENE  II 
Arethusa,  Gaunt  entering  L. 

Arethusa.   Father,  Kit  is  gone.  ...  He  is  asleep.      Sc.  2 

GAUNT.  Waiting,  waiting  and  wearying.  The 
years,  they  go  so  heavily,  my  Hester  still  waiting  ! 
{He goes  A\  to  chest,  which  he  opens.)  That  is  your 
chain  ;  it's  of  Guinea  gold  ;  I  brought  it  you  from 
Guinea.  (  Taking  out  chain.)  You  liked  it  once  ;  it 
pleased  you  long  ago  ;  O,  why  not  now — why  will 
you  not  be  happy  now  ?  .  .  .  I  swear  this  is  my  last 
voyage  ;  see,  I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  Holy  Book 
and  swear  it.  One  more  venture — for  the  child's 
sake,  Hester  ;  you  don't  think  upon  your  little  maid. 

ARETHUSA.   Ah,  for  my  sake,  it  was  for  my  sake  ! 

GAUNT.  Ten  days  out  from  Lagos.  That's  a 
strange  sunset,  Air.  Yeo.  All  hands  shorten  sail! 
Lay  aloft  there,  look  smart  !  .  .  .  What's  that  ? 
Only  the  negroes  in  the  hold.  .  .  .  Mr.  Yeo,  she 
can't  live  long  at  this  ;  I  have  a  wife  and  child  in 
Barnstaple.  .  .  .  Christ,  what  a  sea  !  Hold  on,  for 
God's  sake— hold  on  fore  and  aft  !     Great  God  !  (as 

245 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

IV        though  the  sea  were  making  a  breach  over  the  ship  at 

Sc   2      ^ie  moment)- 

Arethusa.  O ! 

Gaunt.  They  seem  quieter  down  below  there.  .  .  . 
No  water— no  light— no  air — seven  days  battened 
down,  and  the  seas  mountain  high,  and  the  ship 
labouring  hell-deep  !  Two  hundred  and  five,  two 
hundred  and  five,  two  hundred  and  five — all  to 
eternal  torture  ! 

Arethusa.  O  pity  him,  pity  him  !  Let  him  sleep, 
let  him  forget  !  Let  her  prayers  avail  in  heaven, 
and  let  him  rest ! 

Gaunt.  Hester,  no,  don't  smile  at  me.  Rather 
tears !  I  have  seen  you  weep — often,  often  ;  two 
hundred  and  five  times.  Two  hundred  and  five ! 
{With  ring.)  Hester,  here  is  your  ring  {he  tries  to 
put  the  ring  on  his  finger).  How  comes  it  in  my 
hand?  Not  fallen  off  again  ?  O  no,  impossible  !  it 
was  made  smaller,  dear,  it  can't  have  fallen  off !  Ah, 
you  waste  away.  You  must  live,  you  must,  for  the 
dear  child's  sake,  for  mine,  Hester,  for  mine  !  Ah, 
the  child.  Yes.  Who  am  I  to  judge  ?  Poor  Kit 
French  !  And  she,  your  little  maid,  she's  like  you, 
Hester,  and  she  will  save  him  !  How  should  a  man 
be  saved  without  a  wife  ? 

Arethusa.  O  father,    if  you  could  but  hear  me 
thank  and  bless  you  !     ( The  tapping  of  Pew's  stick 
is  heard  approaching.     GAUNT  passes  L.  front  and 
sits.) 
246 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

Gaunt  (beginning  to  count  the  taps).     One — two        IV 
— two  hundred  and  five Sc.  2 

Arethusa  {listening).  God  help  me,  the  blind 
man  !  (She  runs  to  door,  C.  ;  the  key  is  put  into  the 
lock  from  without,  and  the  door  opens.) 

SCENE  III 

Arethusa  (at  back  of  stage  by  the  door)  ;  Gaunt 
(front  L.)  ;  to  these,  Pew,  C. 

Pew  (sottovoce).  All  snug.  (Coming  down.)  So  Sc.  3 
that  was  you,  my  young  friend  Christopher,  as  shot 
by  me  on  the  road  ;  and  so  you  was  hot  foot  after  old 
Pew  ?  Christopher,  my  young  friend,  I  reckon  I'll 
have  the  bowels  out  of  that  chest,  and  I  reckon  you'll 
be  lagged  and  scragged  for  it.  (At  these  words 
Arethusa  locks  the  door,  and  takes  the  key.)  What's 
that  ?  All  still.  There's  something  wrong  about 
this  room.  Pew,  my  'art  of  oak,  you're  queer  to- 
night ;  brace  up,  and  carry  on.  Where's  the  tool  ? 
(Producing  knife.)  Ah,  here  she  is  ;  and  now  for  the 
chest ;  and  the  gold  ;  and  rum — rum — rum.  What ! 
Open  ?  ...  old  clothes,  by  God  !  .  .  .  He's  done 
me  ;  he's  been  before  me  ;  he's  bolted  with  the 
swag  ;  that's  why  he  ran  :  Lord  wither  and  waste 
him  forty  year  for  it  !  O  Christopher,  if  I  had  my 
fingers  on  your  throat !  Why  didn't  I  strangle  the 
soul  out  of  him  ?  I  heard  the  breath  squeak  in  his 
weasand  ;  and  Jack  Gaunt  pulled  me  off.    Ah,  Jack, 

247 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

IV  that's  another  I  owe  you.  My  pious  friend,  if  I  was 
c„  ^  God  Almighty  for  five  minutes  !  (Gaunt  rises  and 
begins  to  pace  the  stage  like  a  quarterdeck,  L.) 
What's  that  ?  A  man's  walk.  He  don't  see  me, 
thank  the  blessed  dark!  But  it's  time  to  slip,  my 
bo.  (He  gropes  his  way  stealthily  till  he  comes  to 
Gaunfs  table,  where  he  burns  his  hand  in  the 
candle.)  A  candle — lighted — then  it's  bright  as  day  ! 
Lord  God,  doesn't  he  see  me  ?  It's  the  horrors  come 
alive.  (Gaunt  draws  near  and  turns  away.)  I'll 
go  mad,  mad  !  (He gropes  to  the  door,  stopping  and 
starting.)  Door.  (His  voice  rising  for  the  first 
time,  sharp  with  terror)  Locked  ?  Key  gone  ? 
Trapped  !  Keep  off— keep  off  of  me — keep  away  ! 
(Sotto  voce  again.)  Keep  your  head,  Lord  have 
mercy,  keep  your  head.  I'm  wet  with  sweat.  What 
devil's  den  is  this  ?  I  must  out — out !  (He  shakes 
the  door  vehemently.)  No  ?  Knife  it  is  then — knife 
— knife— knife !  (He  moves  with  the  knife  raised 
toioards  Gaunt,  intently  listening  and  changing  his 
direction  as  Gaunt  changes  his  position  on  the 
stage.) 

Arethusa  (rushing  to  intercept  him).  Father, 
father,  wake  ! 

Gaunt.  Hester,  Hester  !  (He  turns,  in  time  to  set 
Arethusa  grapple  Pew  in  the  centre  of  the  Stage, 
and  Few  force  her  down.) 

Arethusa.  Kit !  Kit ! 

Pew  (with  the  knife  raised).     Pew's  way  ! 
248 


ADMIRAL     GUINEA 

SCENE    IV 

To  these,  Kit  jy 

(He  leaps  through  window  R.,  and  cuts  Pew  down.      Sc.  A. 
At   the   same  moment,    Gaunt,    who  has  been 
staring  helplessly  at  his  daughter's  peril,  fully 
awakes.) 

Gaunt.  Death  and  blood  !  (Kit,  helping 
Arethusa,  has  let  fall  the  cutlass.  Gaunt  picks  it 
up  and  runs  on  Pew.)  Damned  mutineer,  I'll  have 
your  heart  out !  {He  stops,  stands  staring,  drops 
cutlass,  falls  upon  his  knees.)  God  forgive  me  !  Ah, 
foul  sins,  would  you  blaze  forth  again  ?  Lord,  close 
your  ears  !  Hester,  Hester,  hear  me  not !  Shall  all 
these  years  and  tears  be  unavailing  ? 

Arethusa.  Father,  I  am  not  hurt. 

Gaunt.  Ay,  daughter,  but  my  soul — my  lost  soul! 

Pew  (rising  on  his  elbow).  Rum?  You've  done 
me.  For  God's  sake,  rum.  (Arethusa  pours  out  a 
glass,  which  Kit  gives  to  him.)  Rum  ?  This  ain't 
rum  ;  it's  fire  !  ( With  great  excitement.)  What's 
this?  I  don't  like  rum?  (Feebly.)  Ay,  then,  I'm 
a  dead  man,  and  give  me  water. 

Gaunt.  Now  even  his  sins  desert  him. 

Pew  (drinking  water).  Jack  Gaunt,  you've  always 
been  my  rock  ahead.  It's  thanks  to  you  I've  got 
my  papers,  and  this  time  I'm  shipped  for  Fiddler's 
Green.    Admiral,  we  ain't  like  to  meet  again,  and  I'll 

249 


ADMIRAL     GUI NEA 

IV  give  you  a  toast  :  Here's  Fiddler's  Green,  and 
Qc  .  damn  all  lubbers  !  (Seizing'  Gaunt's  arm.)  I  say 
— fair  dealings,  Jack  ! — none  of  that  heaven  business  : 
Fiddler's  Green's  my  port,  now,  ain't  it  ? 

Gaunt.  David,  you've  hove  short  up,  and  God 
forbid  that  I  deceive  you.  Pray,  man,  pray  ;  for  in 
the  place  to  which  you  are  bound  there  is  no  mercy 
and  no  hope. 

Pew.  Ay,  my  lass,  you're  black,  but  your  blood's 
red,  and  I'm  all  a-muck  with  it.  Pass  the  rum,  and 
be  damned  to  you.     (Trying  to  sing) — 

'  Time  for  us  to  go, 
Time  for  us ' 

(He  dies.) 

GAUNT.  But  for  the  grace  of  God,  there  lies  John 
Gaunt !  Christopher,  you  have  saved  my  child  ;  and 
I,  I,  that  was  blinded  with  self-righteousness,  have 
fallen.    Take  her,  Christopher  ;  but  O,  walk  humbly  ! 


CURTAIN 


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